as time goes by
by Rosslyn
Summary: A Cloud Atlas fusion of POI, where Finch and Reese meet over and over again in Ancient Rome, in Regency England, on the battlefield during WWI, in present day New York (canon), in the field hospital of a Post Apocalyptic world, and on a lonely planet called Aurora, somewhere far, far away. Finch/Reese Slash
1. Prologue

Person of Interest  
Finch/Reese

**- as time goes by -**

**In the end it comes down to a simple realisation: that they have been here before, saying goodbye before the hello, sharing the final touch before the first look, where they have ended, before they began. But that is okay, because they will be here again, as time goes by.**

In which Finch and Reese meet over and over again in Ancient Rome, in Regency England, on the battlefield during WWI, in present day New York (canon), in the field hospital of a Post Apocalyptic world, and on a lonely planet called Aurora, somewhere far, far away.

This is a Cloud Atlas fusion of POI, where each AU and canon is a standalone but come together to form an interwoven story of love, fate, and redemption; as time goes by.

_(No knowledge of Cloud Atlas is needed, this is not a crossover.)_

* * *

_You are welcome to pick your favourite part and read it as a single AU story, but they do connect in some way. The first part of all five AUs and the canon are already uploaded, so you'll know what to expect in each era._

* * *

**Prologue**

_Aurora, 2811 AD. Year 17 of The Machine-Conscious Calendar_

THREAT DETECTED...

COUNCIL ATTACK ON FIREWALL...

ESTIMATED TIME REMAINING...67 HRS

ESTIMATE TIME FOR REPAIR...89 HRS

ACTION REQUIRED BY ADMIN

standby

STANDING BY... SYSTEM WILL SHUT DOWN IN 66 HRS 59 MINS 47 SEC

ADMIN CONFIRM

Y _

* * *

SELECT LANGUAGE

Plain English

SELECTED. USER LOGIN

Finch, Harold

PASSWORD *************

ADMIN RECOGNIZED…

ESTABLISHING PRIVATE LINK TO ASSET: REESE, JOHN...

_Miss me already, Finch?_

Mr. Reese, Research has found us. Regroup at Control, please.

_I can see them. ETA two and half days, maybe?_

67 hours.

_Then I have time. _

What are you treslinking that you are finding so amusing? I would very much prefer if we were not separated once the system goes offline.

_A story. A very long one, but it's a good story._

I'm not sure now is the best time. I need you back at Control.

_I'm almost done. You know how a cliffhanger makes me feel._

TRESLINK STARTED... DOWNLOADING 18%...

_Hey! I will tell you the story once I finish it, patience, Finch._

REVERSE TRESLINK STARTED... UPLOADING 59%...

_Fine, fine. It doesn't appear to have an ending anyway. I'm coming back to Control._

CARBON FORMING INITIATED... PREPARING TO UNLINK FROM MAINS...

Wait

UNLINKING HALTED

_Yes?_

Were you trying to decipher the Prophecies again, Mr. Reese?

_unidentified parameters_

Don't be obtuse now. I saw a glimpse of the parchment. The meaning of those Prophecies are long since lost, Mr. Reese.

_The Machine seems to think it's still important. As with all the other lost and useless artefacts in the archive._

The Machine has been online for 798 years, Mr. Reese. We are but a fraction of that existence. There are bound to be things that It sees, and we do not.

_Which is why I keep looking. Research may have the inter-galactic army, but we have THIS._

The Machine is on no one's side, Mr. Reese.

_Your predecessor never said that._

And you are looking for a way to change the inevitable.

_Non mihi solum. Not for myself alone._

Come back to Control, John. _


	2. The Prophecy of Haraldr, Part I

_In which John Rhys, a Roman Praetorian Guard, is sent to Naples to seek the Haraldr the Seer, rumoured to be in possession of a terrible secret that will overturn the Empire._

_A lot of canon names have not appeared yet in the first century, so I've used their closest derivatives. You should have no problems recognising who's who._

* * *

**The Prophecy of Haraldr, Part I**

_Naples, Italy. Ancient Rome, 79 AD_

The ground shook under his feet. The sheep bleated; stalls around the market wobbled perilously for a while, a water pot fell and shattered on the ground. The crowds in the market quietened for a brief moment, as people regained their balance, then they went on their daily business unabashed: conversations and laughter.

Third time this month. John gazed at the shimmering skyline, frowning. There had been weekly offerings to Ceres, the Goddess of Earth, but earth trembled nonetheless; a worried whisper was travelling through Rome and reaching the Imperial Court, one that the people of Campania remained oblivious to.

"_Domine?_" The small girl he hired as a local guide prompted when he did not move for a prolonged period of time, "We are not far now."

John looked down and saw the girl flinch, evidently alarmed by the hard set lines of his mouth and the sharpness of his gaze. This will not do, if he was to be successful in the mission entrusted to him by Emperor Vaspasian. He forcefully softened his expression.

"You are certain?"

"Yes," the girl replied. "The Seer last revealed himself near the market. Before it opened, of course." A brief pause, then, because she was young and could hardly resist, "Is it true, what they say? "

John smiled. "And what is it they say?"

"That the Seer is sent by Minerva, with an offering from the Goddess herself; he who possess the power of his foresight possesses the future of the Empire." The girl recited in an awed whisper, youthful face lighting up like the sun. "Is it true?"

John locked gaze with the girl, his face not unkind, but he knows from the girl's guarded expression that his eyes spoke more than his words. "You should not listen to hearsay, Therasia of Herculaneum. Night whispers can bring deadly winds upon your sails - be free from it."

Pressing her mouth into an unhappy line, the girl ignored his advice and pointed to an open square in the market. "Right here."

John murmured his thanks and dropped two coins onto her open palms. Therasia tucked them away carefully, before lifting her chin again to meet him in the eye.

"The Seer knows you are looking for him," she said, with a strange tone of defiance. "He always knows."

John arched a brow. "So you are acquainted?" He asked, intensifying his gaze, but the girl did not falter. Theasia shook her head.

"The Seer _knows_," she repeated, and took off into the bustling crowd.

John stood at the edge of the market, scanning its vicinity, saying nothing. The crowd was similar to one that he might find at Rome, only more mixed, with a greater sense of vitality than it was afforded at the Imperial Court. Naples had a flourishing scene of sea commerce, bringing the exquisite and the lovely along with the strange and the arcane. It did not come as a surprise, therefore, when the Emperor caught word of the Seer dwelling near the shores, he had thought to send John Rhys, one of his most trusted Praetorian Guards, to ascertain the Seer's loyalty before it could be manipulated into someone else's weapon. John was never one to believe in prophecies and heavenly secrets burdened by mortals, but his friend and General-in-Command, Marcus, had been persuasive; though all attempts at persuasion fell vainly once he realised where he was being sent. Naples. _Jescha_.

He had not seen Jescha for more than three years, since he was elected to become a Praetorian Guard, but it was the highest form of honour for a soldier and Jescha understood the consequences. Her letters used to come once a month, then every few months, until she mentioned the pressing interest of a Senator named Petrus, and the letter stopped altogether. He had always knew Jescha would be pressurised into marrying, soon, much sooner than he would like, but his duties would not be relieved for another decade at least, and Jescha's family never liked him. But it was a mortal's flaw to hope, and hope he had.

The ground trembled under his feet again, and John scowled harder. Stretching of the earth was not unusual in this area, but he could see the weaknesses embedded in the buildings lining the market, unsupported, wavering, ready to give out at a stronger shake of Ceres' arm. No one in the vicinity seemed to notice, and there was a possession coming down the street, with flowers scattered and animals tied and carried, a sacrifice in offering. John followed the line of the possession and saw a hearth with torch lit, a wedding.

Then he saw the bride and the smile fell off his face.

_Jescha_.

He recognised the groom in front of the possession, the distinct Tyrian purple in the _tunica clava_, and his polished maroon leather shoes. The man held an iron ring, fine cast and made judging by the impressed murmurs of the crowd, and made a point to show off his bride's hand in his own.

Senator Petrus. The person Jescha had been talking about in her letters, joking, complaining, with an edge of plead, before they stopped coming.

John suddenly remembered Marcus' pat on his shoulder, before he left Rome, where he had said, '_a three day journey, just in time _-' then cut off; John had wondered if Marcus knew more about the Seer than he did, but it was clear now that Marcus was talking about something else entirely.

Jescha's wedding. No word was sent for him, to spare him or to punish him, he did not know.

John fell into step with the crowd, eyes never leaving the bride, until the hearth was lit. The animals were sacrificed, then prayers said and rings exchanged; the bride and groom stood on top of the town forum and proclaimed their love for each other, a grand affair. Marrying in prominent families were always a lavish affair, one that he could never give Jescha, even with his tripled pay as a Praetorian Guard.

John hanged back and watched the ceremony with a dull ache in his chest, until the day turned dark and the fires exploded, the wine flowing freely with the people, a true city's feast. Jescha danced and laughed, talking with the distinguished guests of the city, growing weary as Petrus continuously brought her in front of prominent men she had no interest in. John watched her trying to slip away quietly, coming as fate would, towards the shadowed corner where he stood; he could not move. At last Jescha bumped into him.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, my lord," Jescha said, sweet and light as he had remembered, her face swaying in the shadow. Then, "John?"

"Jescha," he said, tasting the name for the first time in three years. He must have looked ashen because Jescha's eyes dart across his face, startled.

"What fate befell you?" she said, full of concern that he found unbearable, "Were you discharged early from the Emperor's service?"

"No, it's - I can't say," John replied, unable to come up with an explanation for his being _here_ when he desperately needed an explanation of her being _there_. He gave a small smile. "I see I did not miss your special occasion. It was magnificent. May the gods always rule in your favour."

The light went out of Jescha's eyes. "You were gone, John," she said, quietly, the last song of the mockingbird. "Praetorian Guard. I was proud of you."

"Truly privileged is the eye that beholds the Emperor when he eats his grapes," he joked. Jescha's eyes fell to the ground.

"You never bid me to wait."

John's throat tightened, and his expression flickered in the shadow. "No," he said, voice surprisingly steady, "No, I did not."

Jescha drew a deep breath and gazed at him, beseechingly, as if daring him to say something now, but John didn't. The night air dragged across his face, slightly damp, a single raindrop fell onto his lashes.

"The heavens have opened," he murmured.

Jescha paid no attention to the cloudburst running down her face. She was disappointed, he could see, and with a strange look in her eye that stung John deeply. He mustered all his strength to not let his face falter as he stood his ground, silent.

"It is as I had imagined," she said at last, tipping her head grimly. "You would never bid me to wait, will you?" The wind flapped around her dress, beautifully forlorn. John made no sound, the flurry of water rolling off his lashes silently. At last Jescha sighed. "For that one needs true courage."

John thought he heard his own heart stop. The storm came with a powerful spell, immobilising his face and locking his limbs, stripping him of the power to speak. Nothing moved for a really long while, and the rain was really beginning to patter now, the crowds were thinning, Petrus was calling for Jescha's name. Jescha looked up, searched for his face for one last time - did not find what she was looking for, by the slight down pull of her lips - and turned away, running towards the lit torch bore by her husband.

John watched her go with a gaping emptiness in his chest, as if she ripped out what was inside and left a hole; but the suffering was deserved and he turned with a strange calmness in his composure. A stray lightening fell from the sky, the Gods were angry at his cowardice, and the ground trembled a little again; that is when he saw him.

The Seer.


	3. The Last Sail of Winchilsea, Part I

_In which John Reese, agent of the War Office, is sent undercover to the Finch household, where Harold Finch, Earl of Winchilsea, is suspected of siphoning money overseas._

* * *

**The Last Sail of Winchilsea, Part I**

_England, The Regency Era, 1820_

The Earl turned at the sound of door being pushed open.

"Good to see you, Mr. Reese," he said, pushing himself to a stand. "I trust the carriage I sent for you is adequate?"

The noble man was pale, with startlingly blue eyes that stood out amidst a set of otherwise unassuming features. He looked as if he was already dressed for dinner, but it was not yet time for tea, the first verification of the personality and the dressing habit of Harold Finch, Earl of Winchilsea, between this side of stiff and that side of quirky.

"More than, my lord," Reese replied, tipping his head. "Thank you."

Finch hummed. Reese took the chance to scan the room: spacious, tastefully decorated with large bookshelves lining the walls, velvet curtains draped over large windows, testimony to both the wealth of the owner and his preference to privacy. A fire was lit, but the room still had a cool breeze about, smelling of old books, parchment, and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. Finch smiled at him.

"Do have a seat," he said.

Reese took a step closer but remained upright. "I think I will rather stand, my lord," he murmured.

A shadow of a smile flitted across Finch's features, and disappeared quickly. He studied Reese's face for a while, contemplative, then struck straight to the point: "Your references are impressive, Mr. Reese. There are ample career choices available to you. Are you sure you wish to devote yourself to a career in services?"

Reese stared straight ahead. "Yes, my lord."

"And you are aware of the extra duties I have laid out in my advertisement, the fact that you will be responsible for my safety as well as wellbeing?"

"Yes, my lord."

Finch closed his eyes briefly. "You are also aware, then, of what happened to the previous gentleman who held this post."

Reese put his hands behind his back. "They are still looking into Mr. Ingram's disappearance," he murmured. "It is my understanding that if and when he is recovered, I will relinquish my position here, if your lordship will offer it to me, so that -"

"Yes, well," Finch interjected with a wave of his hand, "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." He searched Reese's face for something that he did not find. "You are absolutely certain of what is expected of you, and its likely outcomes, then."

A small smile graced Reese's lips, though his eyes remained emotionless. "Yes, my lord."

"Very well." with a sharp nod of his head, Finch began moving towards him, and that was when Reese saw - the pale, impeccably dressed aristocrat was bad in one leg. Finch moved with a rigid composure, and John was acutely aware that he was being scrutinised for his reaction, so he pulled his face into a well practiced bland mask and made no comment.

After a few moments, Finch seemed to relax.

"There are few ground rules I should set out before your trial period is allowed to commence," he said. "Since you are entering the Service sector for the first time, you may not realise any difference, but I prefer to be upfront." At Reese's arched eyebrow, he continued, "You will no doubt have heard rumours about this household. They are, of course, founded on little more than a fraction of the truth, and sometimes not even so, but I would prefer if you could bring your questions to me, personally, rather than add to the quibble that is already rife in the village."

Indeed, Reese had overheard no less than three conversations on his way here, ranging from the entertaining to the outright ridiculous. "I was warned that your lordship is a Vampire," he said, smiling somewhat.

Finch's face did not falter even a little. "I may not venture out much," he said calmly, "But I certainly do not require sustenance by human blood. Anything else?"

Reese's mouth twitched. A shadow of a smile made an appearance again behind those piercing blue eyes, and Finch came a step closer. "We do things a little differently here, Mr. Reese," he said, each word drawn out slow and deliberately with meaning, "For one, this is a small household for someone my status, so you will be expected to do more work. For another, I do not go to London for its Seasons, nor do I care much about the _ton_, though I _do_ care about the Estate and its surrounding grounds, and you can expect a fair amount of field trips to the village too. Not what is normally expected of a valet or a butler, I know," Finch added, searching Reese's face again, perhaps for a clue that he is reconsidering, "But you should know that I will expect much more of you that is normally expected of such positions. Are you comfortable with this arrangement?"

Reese gave a curt nod of his head.

"Good," Finch said. "Room and board is of course provided, and you will be paid by the month. If you find yourself in doubt, or troubled by a question, you come to me. I may not always give you an answer," he said, finding Reese's gaze and locking it, "But I will never lie to you. Please bear that in mind."

"Thank you, my lord," Reese said, his face a mask still. Finch waved a hand.

"You can forego the honorary address if you so wish," he said. "I see no reason for formality in my own house."

Reese pointedly dragged his eyes away from the waistcoat and the pocket square, but Finch was perceptive; he smiled. "Try not to fall over yourself by the novelties we swear by in this house, Mr. Reese. If you will ring for tea now."

Reese bowed, unable to hide a quirk of his own lips. "As you wish, my lord."

The infiltration had been successful. Getting references was the easy part: Mark always had a glowing reference for him for whatever occasion he was going undercover in, or as. Being a valet/butler/bodyguard/everything else, however, was a first: Dallying with the _ton_ for information was easy, especially in Season, where rumours were rife and abundant on its own; but building a service career in an country estate and hoping to catch by fault the elusive mastermind who was undermining the War effort by siphoning money overseas was something else entirely. The War Office had honed in on its target, the eccentric, reclusive and absurdly well-inherited Earl of Winchilsea; and they had sent Reese, their best, when Finch was looking for a replacement for his personal valet and right hand man. To the best of Reese's knowledge, this was a long battle line, drawn out over the course of years, patiently waiting for the right fish to hook at the right time. Time he would take.

The Finch household _was_, as it turned out, unbelievably small. Reese met Jocelyn, the head (and only) maid, and Fusco, the chubby (male!) cook when he went downstairs to fetch the tea, and nearly ran Leon (the footman) over when the latter thought to do the same. Unfortunately, Leon seemed to take an immediate interest in his new superior, and Reese had yet to shake him off his trail.

"So his lordship says you were a soldier," Leon said, jogging behind him and he strode out to the garden, "Is it true you saw Napoleon's face?"

Reese sincerely regretted the fact that he was only working on his trial period and it would probably reflect poorly if he fired the only footman in the house on his first day. "Does his lordship share everything with you, then?"

"Ahaha," Leon laughed, and Reese narrowed his eyes, was the man Asian, for goodness sakes? "His lordship is really laid back. You shouldn't be so rigid yourself, or you'd end up more lordlike than he is," he said, with a playful punch to his shoulder.

Reese stared at him.

"Right," Leon said, gulping involuntarily. "I'll be on my way, then - tell me about Napoleon's moles next time," he yelled, one foot already in the door.

Reese watched him go then scanned the exterior of the estate. Two stories with an attic floor, large windows that would have filled the rooms with sun if the curtains weren't so fastidiously draped. The only window with open curtains were that of the drawing room, where Finch was sitting, evidently enjoying his tea and admiring a painting, his back to Reese.

Seizing his chance, Reese quickly found what he was looking for in the well-kept garden. The _tithymalus_ plant, used by ancients to produce a kind of invisible ink, now common among the agents of the War Office.

"Ah, Euphorbia," Finch greeted with a smile as Reese walked into the drawing room with the flowers in a vase, "Novel choice."

"The common flowers also deserve some spot to shine," Reese replied, rearranging the bouvardia and delphinium on a daring backdrop of euphorbias.

"Shouldn't Jocelyn be doing this?" Finch asked with a hint of amusement.

"If she was, then there wouldn't be any novel choice," Reese said with a careful amount of smugness. Finch arched an eyebrow.

"Oh dear. Five minutes into your post and already taking over everyone else's job," he said, with good humour. "Just don't go baking any time soon, or I may not be able to contain Fusco's protest."

Reese smiled. "Will you be changing before dinner?"

"No, but thank you," Finch said. "As you can probably see, I mostly eat alone." A brief pause, then, "You are welcome to join me if you like, Mr. Reese."

Reese blinked. "Beg pardon, my lord?"

"Join me for dinner," Finch repeated, that fleeting shadow of a smile again, almost too quick to be caught. He was staring Reese straight in the eye. "Novelties, Mr. Reese. Unless of course, you prefer Leon's company instead."

Reese had a strange prickling sensation on the back of his neck as he fought to dismiss the idea that Finch _knew_, because it would be impossible. Eccentric the Earl might be with his total disregard of societal conventions, he could not have been gifted with the power of foresight. Observation, perhaps, but nothing more. John lowered his eyes. "If you insist, my lord."

Finch, who was watching him closely, huffed a laugh. "Guard me from no one but yourself, Mr. Reese," he said, pulling himself out of the sofa and limping towards the door. The last glance he cast over his shoulder was unreadable. "Dinner is an invitation, not a job requisite. Join me when you'd like, not when you have to."

With that Reese is left alone in the drawing room, at a total loss for words.

* * *

_There is an actual Finch family in the British peerage (now Finch-Hatton), and they do hold the title of Earl of Winchilsea and Nottingham. There will be some historical references, but of course, this is completely fictional and wholly unrelated to the real Finch family._


	4. Behind Enemy Lines, Part I

_In which Colonel Charles Burton asks Quartermaster Harold Finch and Sergeant John Reese for the impossible._

* * *

**Behind Enemy Lines, Part I**

_France, First World War, 1916._

For a brief moment Finch appeared at a total loss for words. He paced back and forth in the room, limping leg all but forgotten, expression strangled. Then, in the closet imitation of an angry outburst he could manage, Finch turned sharply and glared at the man behind the desk.

"You do realise he is not _any man's property,_" he said, irritated.

"And you are not just a Quartermaster," Colonel Burton countered calmly. He puffed his cigar. "You think I don't know the little scheme you run with John? The cryptic messages you send along with the supplies, the last minute manoeuvre on the chessboard? -"

"- The _battlefield_," Finch interrupted, looking appalled. Then he narrowed his eyes. "Is this what it is to you? A chess game?"

"All military strategies are a chess game," Burton said, tipping his cigar in the ash tray. "You know as well as I do that we are at a stalemate. The trenches..."

Ah, the trenches. Finch blanched just thinking about them, thinking about John, knee deep in muddy water, eating nothing but rationed sludge. If it hadn't been their _manoeuvres_ it would have been worse, the line being pushed by several feet and back, losing men in pointless advances that would be lost in days' time.

"Just so you know," Burton spoke again, peering at him behind the smoke, "Ingram can no longer protect you. This unassuming Quartermaster act? Not enough to hide your real talent any more."

Finch bristled. "I don't know what you are talking about," he said.

"Cut away that act now, Harold," Burton said, waving his cigar and ignoring Finch's scrunched eyebrow. "Ingram pulled strings to get you here, you know it. And not to let you climb the ladder - he wanted you well hidden, even if it's the last thing he did. Now," he leaned close, a predatory glint in his eye, "What I really like to find out is why."

"By betting on Sergeant Reese's life," Finch said sarcastically. "If you think I have some secret I am hiding from my country, then you are welcoming to interrogate me for it. _But_ _leave Reese out of this_."

"Why would I do that?" Burton said, amused. "You and John work great as a team. Procure me information we need to break out of the stalemate, and I will let your side projects slide. Failing that..." He flicked away the ash like he would the chess pieces on a board, smiling. "Oh, John and his battalion _will_ go over the top."

* * *

Finch stormed out of the Colonel's residence and went immediately down to Reese's bunker. Leon saluted him with a haute "sir!" and he brushed him off, lifting the blanket draped over the door.

"Reese," he called.

"He's not here, sir," Leon told him. "Out on a round, I think."

Finch cursed inwardly and went on his search, dragging his injured leg in a fierce hobble along the trenches. Several of Reese's men eyed him with surprise, others murmured "Quartermaster" while he passed, and Finch paid no attention to either. His mind was fixated with Burton's smile: placid, harmless - warm, even - but he had seen the snake behind those eyes and the thought of Burton sending Reese over the top as _fodder_...

He found Reese behind the supply depot, tucking into a dubious bowl of soup and waiting for his return. Reese glanced up just as he stalked close, catching his expression. Finch tried to draw a blank but it was too late, Reese was already smirking.

"Miss me already, Finch?" he asked with a flick of his eyebrow.

Finch nodded towards the bowl. "That soup is twenty percent mud and eighty percent chicken's waste," he said, completely ignoring Reese's smirk.

"Eighty percent?" Reese licked his lips, "I thought it was more sixty percent. Eighty percent is the sand in this morning's oatmeal."

Finch gave him an annoyed look. "Why aren't you in your bunker?" he asked, sitting down beside Reese and eyeing the remnants of the soup in distaste. Reese smiled.

"Why weren't you here?"

Finch huffed half a laugh. "Alright. You heard Burton's sent for me, then."

"Of course," Reese murmured. "And I suppose it's not for the sixty percent of grass in his cigars?"

Finch's lips quirk before they are pulled down again. "Burton seems to think we now moonlight as a part of the Intelligence Corps. He wants us to deliver information that could break us out of this stalemate."

Reese whistled quietly. "Only God and the General himself can break us out of this stalemate," he said. "Does he really think we have eyes on the other side, just because we were lucky enough to be awake during a few stealth attacks?"

"Twenty battalions were lost since we got here," Finch said, quietly. "Not a single man of yours is among the casualties. That kind of luck is bound to raise suspicions at Headquarters."

Reese laughed harshly. "So what, I'm a German spy because I'm good at keeping my men alive?"

Finch said nothing, his mouth pressed into an unhappy line. His eyes trailed over an exposed piece of flesh in Reese's shoulder, the jacket already torn; dirt had already smeared across the skin, leaving the birthmark barely noticeable. A lopsided cross that looked more like an X on a treasure map, already faded in its colour and marred by scars inflicted by this slow torture. He lifted his eyes to find Reese smiling again, an indulgent, knowing gaze in his eyes.

"We walk in the dark, Quartermaster," he said, "But we do not walk alone."

Finch remained silent for a few seconds. Then, "Has Leon been reading poems to you again?" he asked, dubious.

Reese laughed, a genuine laugh this time. "No, Finch," he said, "That was all me."

Finch regarded him. "Leon's a bad influence on you," he said dismissively as Reese chuckled some more. They sat, slumped against the supply pile, watching the soldiers mill about in the trenches, one that criss crossed and zigzagged into the long night. No Man's Land remained silent, an occasional pop of a stray gunshot, not amounting to more than two or three.

"So what now?" Reese asked finally, and Finch felt a rough palm scrape the back of his hand, a source of phantom warmth. He glanced up to see Reese staring into the night, a forlorn look in his eyes, unaware of the absent affection he was offering. Finch sighed and took the hand into his own.

"Right now? We wait." He smiled as Reese tightened his grip. "Then we walk together."


	5. Person of Interest, Interlude

_Canon fluffy interlude. Mainly to illustrate that canon is considered a part of this storyline. Fluff!_

* * *

**Person of Interest, Part I**

_New York, Present day, 2013_

Reese walked alongside Finch, his overcoat flapping in the wind.

"Do you know where the word _decimate_ come from, Mr. Reese?" Finch asks suddenly, half turning to avoid the traffic. He does not wait for Reese to reply before answering himself. "Ancient Rome. Decimation is when the army general asks the mutinous, or cowardly soldiers to line up, and execute every tenth person in the line."

"Effective population control," Reese says, with dark humour.

"Worse still," Finch continues, "It is sometimes done by ordering soldiers into groups. The nine survivors would stone or club the unfortunate tenth to death, as a salvation for their own crimes."

Reese's gives Finch a blank stare. "If you are trying to highlight the morbidity of the situation, I get it," he says.

"Decima Technologies," Finch says, unabashed. They are at a crossing now, and the light is green, but Finch remains rooted to the spot, scrutinising the crowd with a slight frown on his face. "The name alone gives me an ominous feeling."

"Didn't peg you for one to believe in omens," Reese murmurs, placing a subtle hand behind the small of Finch's back and offering a gentle nudge. They fall into step again.

"Omens, no," Finch says, as they come up to the library. "Indications, yes." He gives Reese a significant look while Reese instinctively scanned the surroundings for suspicious behaviour and personnel. "The Numbers themselves are also indications, you know."

They climb the stairs in silence. Bear lunged for the entrance with a happy woof as soon as they reached the top of the stairs, and Reese slips a treat into his mouth when Finch busied himself with the metal gate. "Good boy," he says, rubbing Bear's chin.

"I saw that," Finch says as he comes up behind with a vaguely disapproving glance. "I should remind you that it was your idea to put him on a diet in the first place, Mr. Reese."

"When I say diet, I was thinking more on the lines of 'no more leftover donuts'," Reese replies, completely unashamed. The corner of Finch's mouth twitch as he quickly averts Reese's gaze.

"What?" Reese asks, suspicious.

Finch doesn't reply, but pats his knees instead. "Come here," and Bear hops onto Finch's lap happily, nuzzling his face. "That's between Bear and I," Finch says, smirking a little.

Reese narrows his eyes but doesn't press the point further. He flops down on the armchair opposite the desk.

"New Number yet?"

"No," Finch replies. "Would you like the afternoon off?"

Reese ponders over this, thinks about the chess game with Han, then decides against it. "I never got to the ending of _Stress Fractures of Titanium_," he says, with a casual flick of his eyebrow.

"Oh, it's a cliffhanger," Finch says, deadpan. Reese grins as Finch tosses Bear his favourite squeaky toy.

"Recommend something to me, then."

Finch pauses at the keyboard and looks over, bemused. "What would you like?"

Reese considers this for a while. "Something epic," he decides.

"Homer's _Iliad_," Finch says, almost immediately. "Worth reading again even if you have read it before."

"Alright," says Reese affably as he stands up. Then, "You do have an English translation of it?"

"If you think I will lend you the 1542 rare edition then you should think again," says Finch dismissively. "Penguin classics, second shelf on your right."

"Your rare editions make me sneeze," Reese mutters. He doesn't pretend to ignore the small wry smile that passes Finch's lips as he bends down to inspect the titles.

"Tactitus, Caesar, Procopius, Ammianus... why Homer, Finch?"

"Unless you prefer to read _The Natural History_ by Pliny the Elder?"

Reese peeks at him behind the gaps in the shelf. "You read encyclopaedias for fun, Finch?"

Finch beams. Reese's eyes disappear behind the books again with a roll that can only be described as indulgent. Finch calls after him.

"Come to think of it, you should try Procopius's _Secret History_," Finch says, with an imperceptible lilt in his voice, "I'm sure it'll provide an entertaining afternoon."

"By reading about a Queen who prefers to lay naked on stage, letting geese eat barley off her body?" Reese murmurs, completely unfazed, "My Finch, I never would've thought that of you."

The tip of Finch's ear burned red but he is smiling. "They left out the part about your veritable classics education, then."

"You don't think we read sixth century Roman erotica for fun in school?" Reese drawls.

"I'm not sure I want to know," Finch says, turning a little in his chair with a mocking scowl. "Would you like to move on to Procopius' _Wars?_"

"I'm not falling for that," Reese says. The corners of Finch's mouth quirk. Reese glances at him, unimpressed. "You are enjoying this way too much," he notes. "I agreed to see _Roshomon_ with you, but if a line was ever to be drawn - "

"The entire collection of Ian Fleming's work is to your left," Finch says, nonchalant.

Reese pointedly ignores him and makes a mocking typing gesture. Finch all but smirks.

"I've been thinking," he begins.

"Always a dangerous thing," Reese murmurs.

"- Perhaps you'd like a game of chess sometime?" Finch asks, smiling a little.

Reese arches a brow. "Chinese chess?"

"If you prefer," Finch says. "Since there are no new Numbers at the moment."

"Elias not challenging enough for you, then," Reese says, flicking a sly glance in his direction. Finch promptly brushes it off.

"I'm going to be bold and take that as a compliment," Finch says. "Found your book yet?"

"Let me see. What about _The Prophecy of Haraldr?_" Reese asks, thumbing through the titles and pausing at a worn, leather bound journal. "Sounds interesting."

"I don't remember that," Finch says, frowning as he walks over. He runs his hands over the leather cover and opens it to find a small stamp inside. "It's donated to the library after the Great War," he says, leafing through the crisp pages carefully. "Interesting." Finch peered at the title again. "You don't pronounce the r, I think, " he says.

"The Prophecy of Harold?" Reese reads out loud, "Now I really ought to read it."

They stare at each other across the book.

"Right," Reese says finally, with a deliberate slowness in his voice. "Well? Would you like to read it together?"

"Before or after the chess game?" Finch asks, never one to back down easily.

"What, you can't multitask?" Reese says with a lewd glance and a flick of his head. "Come on."

Finch scowls after him. "If you want me to read it to you, I'll only do it in Latin," he says, defiantly. "It would look poorly on your part if you still lose, though -"

Then the phone rings.

"Well," Finch says, exchanging a look with Reese.

"Rain check?" Reese offers, smiling.

"I'll hold you to it," Finch murmurs, and picks up the phone.


	6. The Impossible Cure, Part I

_In which Dr. Finch saves ex-soldier now-Homeless Reese's life, then realises he is more trouble than he lets on._

* * *

**The Impossible Cure, Part I**

_The Stronghold, Post Apocalypse, 2107_

"For the love of Aurora, I will not give up on civilians just because they are deemed _irrelevant_," Harold says, annoyed. "A hospital is a hospital, it will not be used as a health resort for the self-important! Now If you would kindly stop calling me, _sir_!"

He slams down the phone and notices a sharp beeping noise in the next bed. "Oh no. No no no, stay with me now," Harold says, glancing at the wobbling line on the monitor. "Nurse! He's in V Fib. Push two of api, and get me a Sonix defibrillator -"

"We lost the last of Sonix last week," a nurse says nearby, "Only paddles left, Doctor."

Harold quickly shoves away the quiet horror rising in his chest as he stared down at the man's lifeless body. "Then it's down to his luck," he says, already at work with the patient's shirt, "Paddles!"

He notices a birthmark shaped like an 'X' on the patient's abdomen, where there is also a gaping wound oozing blood. "Gauze," he calls, "And where is - ah, charge to 200!"

_Thump_.

"Again!"

_Thump_.

Quiet panic fluttered in his heart with no reason, and Harold swallows thickly. "Charge to 360," he demands, brows knit furiously together, "Again!"

_Thump_.

He placed two fingers on the jugular, and there it is. "We are back in sinus," he says, sighing with relief. "Thank Aurora. Does anyone have a name for this gentleman?"

"John Doe," someone says.

"Alright, let's get John to a full body scan to see what's really wrong with him," Harold says, taking off his gloves with a snap. "Mr. Tao!"

An asian man zipped his way across the floor. "Yes, Dr. Finch?"

"Full body scan and report," Harold says. "I need a minute."

"Right away doctor," Tao says, disappearing with the gurney into the corridor.

Harold watches him go, then pushed himself down on the bench with a sigh. Being a doctor used to be challenging, now it is downright hellish - there is no _good leg_ for him anymore, after sixteen hours in the pit they are both reduced to nothing more than a gigantic neurotransmitter for pain.

Rubbing his leg absently, Harold stares past the bulletproof windows and out to the gated yard. Dusk is just settling, and if he squinted with his head a little to the left, he can almost see the the blue glow of the EMP field guarding the hospital, glittering in the wasting sun. At times like this it is almost beautiful, if one chooses to forget the world that burns behind those invisible fences.

They call it the Decima virus. The progression of the disease almost defies reason: it turns carbon life forms into half silicone, a cyborg of sorts, without the ability to think, no longer human. Worse still, when the humans are turned into _halfsi_, they are connected, online, controlled by a phantom mainframe, a formidable army on its own. Technology is no longer safe: whatever is online can be accessed by _halfsi_, and the virus can lie dormant for months on end, waiting to strike.

Thus humanity crumbles while the cyber army grows stronger day by day, claiming territories and recreating society from ground up, a society where humans have no place. There are not many hospitals left now, and those left are not more than a 21th century clinic, since too much of the technology has been lost, or people have been too afraid to use them. The field hospital on the outskirt of the Stronghold is the only one left with any capability at all, its structure protected by a military grade EMP field, potent enough to destroy any _halfsi_ that comes into its range. It has become a refuge of sorts, for the human survivors, and there were many, almost too many, because the hospital is understaffed and its staff are often under-qualified. Harold never had to operate for more than four hours because of his bad leg, but now? Most of the work is trauma related, and he easily juggles three field operations at once, his feet rooted to the ground for days on end. The pain is bearable now, because physical pain is easier to deal with than mental, and for that there is no cure.

"Dr. Finch," a voice calls him back to attention, "The scans are ready." Tao looks hesitant as he says this, shuffling from feet to feet.

Harold shakes the scan to the light and takes a sharp breath. "Are you sure?"

"Very," Tao says. "I looked it over twice. He's on his way to Dr. Tillman now."

"There's not a single place left uninjured in his body," Harold says, halfway between marvel and horror. "If he is a soldier, he's seen worse times."

"Worse times than this?" Tao asks.

"Oh, I have no doubt, Mr. Tao," Harold says grimly, staring past him and onto the quiet yard. "Post an alert on his EEG. I want to know the moment he wakes up."

John Doe doesn't wake up until three days later. When he does, however, it is almost immediately a disaster: Harold's larynx was nearly crushed when John suddenly grabbed his throat, just as he was bending over and checking John's vitals.

"A simple thank you would be sufficed," Harold croaks, annoyed, after he made it explicitly clear that he was not planning on taking John's life, but rather hoping to save it.

John stared back at him. "How did you find me?"

Harold frowns. "You found us," he says, eyeing the man with alarm. "Do you not remember how you got to the hospital?"

The expression of John's face draw a blank. "This is a hospital?"

Harold scribbles 'retrograde amnesia' on the chart with no small amount of petty vengeance. John Doe seems to be able to read his handwriting upside down, and is amused.

"I remember," he says mildly.

"Oh yes?" Harold says, peeved, "What is your name, then?"

"John," he tells him, then pauses for thought. "John Reese," the man says, finally.

"Well, Mr. Reese," Harold says, flipping the chart close with a snap, "You are at Universal Heritage Hospital, in the Stronghold. I trust you also remember the world has ended?" he adds, sarcastically.

John stares at him. "Decima," he says.

"Veeery good," Finch says, maddeningly patronising. He pulls out a torchlight. "Follow the light with your eyes, please."

But John doesn't; the stubbornness of a patient only glares at him with a sharp, penetrating gaze, one that made Harold distinctively uncomfortable after the first few seconds.

"Do you want me to put brain damage on your chart?" Harold says, aggravated, "_Follow the light with your eyes._"

A shadow of a smirk crossed John's features, and he complied.

"No brain damage," Harold announces, clipping the torchlight to his pocket again.

"Well you don't have to sound so disappointed," John says.

Harold ignores him. "You are a soldier," he says, cutting straight to the chase. "What happened?"

"The end of the world happened," John answers, curving his lips humourlessly. "I was a soldier. I'm more of a homeless now."

"Aren't we all," Harold says, with a small sigh. He straightens his lab coat and checks John's vitals again. "Be at ease here, Mr. Reese. Your injuries are extensive but not unsalvageable. You should recover fully soon." He turns to leave.

"You haven't told me your name yet," John calls after him.

Harold pauses at the door. In the stuttering light of the recovery room, John's feature has grown impossibly soft, his eyes startlingly bright. Something stirs in Harold's chest as he hesitates.

"You can call me Dr. Finch."


	7. Ascent of the Machines, Part I

In which Reese, a space fugitive, stumbles upon the lone planet of Aurora, and a mysterious man by the name of Harold Finch offers him refuge.

* * *

**Ascent of the Machines, Part I**

_Planet Aurora, 2798_

"Finch, is it?" Reese closes his eyes for a moment, then, "You are not on the Intergalactic Registry."

"Nor will you find me in any other database," The oddly dressed man named Finch says. "Mr - ?"

"Lieutenant Reese, " Reese replies absently while giving the man a once over. "John Reese."

"Well, Mr. Reese," Finch makes a point not to use his military honorific as he turned slowly, "There is nothing for you here. You should return to Terra One, or wherever it is you came from."

"Scouting remote places of the galaxy is also a part of my mission," Reese says. "This planet have a name?"

Finch appears reluctant to give that piece of information. "I named it Aurora."

"Aurora," Reese repeats. He refrains from passing judgement on the name. "How many inhabitants are on this planet?"

"One," Finch says.

Reese's eyebrows nearly shoot through the atmosphere. "Back on Terra One people would call this solitary confinement," he says. "I suppose you have a reason?"

"I do," Finch replies slowly, "But I wasn't aware I needed one."

Reese ponders this for a moment and concedes. He tries a bit of humour instead. "So this, uh," he gestures towards the glasses and the waistcoat, "Some kind of vintage style you like?"

"I'm a very private person, Lieutenant," Finch says, ignoring his comment and punctuating each word with a stare. "Is there anything else?"

"Right," Reese says, feeling a little sheepish. "Well, I was going to scout the rest of the A3-J6 nebula -"

"There's nothing here," Finch says dismissively. "Only Aurora."

"The nearest supply star being -"

"NYC17," Finch replies. "Two days journey."

Which is really far. "I see," Reese says. "Well, I need the information uplinked to the server. Think you can plug me into your Mains?"

The look on Finch's face makes it apparent that the man does not think it's a good idea, but he relents anyway. Reese grins as he closes his eyes.

* * *

INITIATING UPLINK...

NEW USER IDENTIFIED...

Reese, John

TEMPORARY PASSWORD CREATED ******

_Welcome to Aurora, Mr. Reese._

Wow. This is more sophisticated than most of the Mains I've seen on Terra One.

_Thank you. Here is the information package you requested._

UPLINKING ...15%

I'll also need a comprehensive overview of Aurora's earth composition, mineral content, rare metals, the works.

UPLINKING ...32%

While we are at it, could you possibly zap a map of the nearest route to NYC17?

UPLINKING NYC17-ROUTE... 67%

Great. Maybe some water and bread for the lone traveler?

_Goodbye, Mr. Reese._

UPLINK COMPLETED...

DISCONNECTED FROM AURORA.

* * *

Despite his best intentions, Reese finds himself on the outer ring of Aurora again in just three months time.

"What is it this time, Mr. Reese?" Finch asks exasperatedly.

"I was moored near Terra Three," Reese says. "There was an unaccounted warp, I fell into it."

"You are lost," Finch says in disbelief. "And you ended up here by chance?"

"As fate would have it," Reese says airily. "How's your solitary confinement?"

"No longer solitary," Finch replies, annoyed. "What is it that you need? Water? Bread?" Reese can almost hear the sarcasm drip. He grins.

"A tour of Aurora would be nice," he says. "May I come in?"

* * *

THREAT DETECTED...

INTERGALACTIC FLEET FIVE, UNIT THREE IDENTIFIED...

ETA 35 MINS...

INCOMING MESSAGE:

_Wanted: Reese, John, Male Earthian, last spotted near Terra Three. Space fugitive, former assassin, armed and highly dangerous. Please report to IG Fleet 5 Commander Snow with information._

REPLY?

N _

* * *

They stare at each other for a few minutes.

"What did you do?" Finch asks finally, "Blow up Ordos?"

"Something like that," Reese says dismissively.

"To evoke the wrath of Mark Snow," Finch says, contemplative, "That's very impressive."

Reese's mouth twitch. "I'm glad you find that amusing. I guess I'll be going now," he says, betraying no emotion as he closes his eyes. " Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Finch."

"Wait," Finch calls after him. Reese pauses and opens his eyes again. Finch is peering at him oddly. "Didn't you want a tour of Aurora?"

Reese blinks. "I'm a fugitive," he reminds Finch, softly.

"So I heard," Finch says.

"Former assassin."

"Former."

"Armed and highly dangerous," Reese presses, amused now.

"I'd like to see you try and break Aurora's firewall by yourself," Finch replies, calmly. "Are you going to come in, or are you waiting for a reunion with Commander Snow?"

Reese opens his mouth and closes it again, breaking into a slow smile. "You looked me up," he says, more amazement than accusation. "You know who I am."

Finch peers at him. "Would you prefer if I didn't?"

Reese grins as the firewall is lowered line by line.

* * *

INITIATING UPLINK...

USER SELECTED BY ADMIN: REESE, JOHN

PASSWORD ***********

_Welcome to Aurora, Mr. Reese._

You kept my temporary ID, Finch?

_No, I recreated one. Amongst others._

Others?

_Watch_.

TRESLINK INITIATED... DOWNLOADING 89%

_Message to IG Fleet 5, Commander Snow: No sign of fugitive. Most recent visitor: Warren, John. Biometrics submitted for inspection._

MESSAGE RECEIVED... ACCEPTED

IG FLEET 5 ALTERING COURSE... THREAT RELIEVED.

You do realise you just committed a felony.

_A simple thank you would have sufficed, Mr. Reese._

Where are we going?

_Control, Mr. Reese. _

CARBON FORMING INITIATED... PHYSICAL TRANSFER COMPLETE.

* * *

Reese opens his eyes and sees something he has only ever seen in historical documentaries: a library. Winding stairs, then shelves and shelves of books lined the walls, its end nowhere in sight. He doesn't realise he is holding his breath until Finch taps him lightly on the shoulder.

Reese looks around to find Finch smiling, the keenly blue eyes softening by a fraction.

"Follow me," Finch says, and John does; it changes his life.


	8. The Prophecy of Haraldr, Part II

**The Prophecy of Haraldr, Part II**

_Naples, Italy. Ancient Rome, 79 AD_

John followed the cloaked figure into the night, his vision marred by the cloudburst above. The man moved with surprising agility; the pursuit quickly led him away from the crowd and onto a dark path, untrodden and secluded from the city roads.

"Hold your ground!" John called, hurrying in the direction of his pursuit as darkness befell his vision. "I am John Rhys, humble servant of the Emperor Vespasian. I was sent for you, Seer, with word from Augustus himself."

The shuffling of steps paused. A distinct voice rang in the dark, striking through the downpour with piercing clarity. "Go back to Court, John Rhys of Rome. You will be of better service there."

John stepped forward. "My duty lies with you, my lord," he said, soft with coaxing gentleness. "Impart me knowledge, and I shall leave you at peace."

"Knowledge?" The voice asked quietly, laden with something heavy that John did not recognise. "Knowledge is a tax, if you cannot act upon it."

John frowned. "The Gods and Augustus himself will know how to act," he said, hesitatingly.

He was met with silence.

"Seer!" John called, uncertain if the man was still there. "I mean no harm."

"Refer me not to that name," the voice said, harshly.

"Then what is your name, my lord?" John asked.

The Seer turned; light fell from the sky and briefly set ablaze his shadowed face. "I can impart to you my name," he said, "or the knowledge that Vespasian so desperately seeks. There is no more."

John made a move for the man's cloak. "I seek only the truth -" he began, but the fabric slipped through his fingers; the Seer, to his great surprise, disappeared into a wall.

John stood for a few moments in the dark, dumbfounded, then his training took effect; he lunged at the wall and checked for traps. Soon enough he found a protruding brick that when pushed, revealed a discreet doorway leading to a secluded room.

"Seer," he called again, his voice bouncing off in the dark.

A slight hiss of fire being lit, and a torch appeared in front of John's face. The Seer's eyes, wide and blue, stared back at him; the lines around them were seasoned with time, his mouth pressed thinly in the cold.

"Where are we?" John asked.

"I only have two answers for you today, John," the Seer said. "So you should weigh your questions carefully."

John peered at him as the water slowly drained off his robe, the drops falling to the floor echoing eerily far. "Your secret," he said, without preamble or pretence, "Is it true?"

The Seer smiled. "Rumours have no strength if they are not fed on time." He turned and led John further into the room, away from the puddle of water that pooled around John's feet. "Vespasian need not worry about my loyalty," the Seer told him.

John relaxed minutely. The Seer peered at him, expressionless.

"The Emperor's eyes are clouded," he said, ominously after a few moments. "The arrow comes for him elsewhere."

John threw him a piercing gaze. "The affairs of Court is not revealed outside of its mostly trusted circle. From where do you receive information, wise one?"

The Seer did not reply, only watched him with patient eyes. "Vespasian is plagued by a strange malaise," he said. "The energy of life is leaving him. He prays to Aesculapius everyday, but his attention is better diverted elsewhere, for it is not the gods that rush him towards the river Styx."

John inhaled sharply. "My lord!" he said, "The accusation which you bring is a grave one indeed. Point me in the right way."

The Seer shook his head. "I have no truth," he said. "Only certainties." Then he looked upon John with wide eyes again, expression forming into something imperceptibly softer, something that John could not fathom. "Have you no qualms with the decision to send you here? John, Vespasian's most humble servant, away from Court, the Emperor left alone -"

Hot fury, fuelled by cold terror, boiled in John's heart as he blindly stepped forward. "Say no more," he hissed. "Marcus is a dear friend. He will never betray Augustus, nor me."

The Seer gazed upon him with sympathy. "Two paths lie before you, John," he said, dipping his face in the shadow again. "Rome and duty beckons you, to stand by Emperor's side. That path leads you back to where you came from."

"And another?"John asked.

"Is right here," Seer replied. "Senator Petrus is a man of blind arrows himself."

Another kind of quiet horror - of something else entirely - gripped John's heart. "No," he said. "No. I do not believe your tales of woe. Senator Petrus is an honourable man, more deserving of Jescha than I."

Imperturbable, mild gaze locked with his. "John Rhys of Rome," The Seer chanted, his voice soft, "Emperor Vespasian's most trusted Praetorian Guard. Seasoned member of the_ Frumentarii_ -"

John's hands flew to the man's throat before his mind could react to the words. "Those secrets are not for you to bear," he hissed, voice low and urgent. "Show thyself!"

The cloak fell from the Seer's face, revealing a man of middle age, blue eyes calm like the ocean before the storm. He did not flinch from John's grip. "I do not pretend to have the truth, but I know for certain that your friends have been feeding you lies." Then, as John's grip slacken, "I never will."

John spared no thought for the curious choice of the Seer's words. "I must return to Court," he said, mind already elsewhere, "If your tales carry truth, then Augustus is in grave danger. I must..." he trailed off, staring across with imploring eyes.

The Seer studied him for a few moments, then pushed the door open into the alleyway. Outside the downpour had ceased somewhat, a mere dribble now, and the darkness thickened, where the light failed to touch. He turned to meet John in the eye. "You walk in the dark," he said, holding out a torch to the side, "but you do not walk alone."

Under the swaying fire, John saw an emblem painted on the wall: a bird of vibrant colour, perched on a cane, over seven embolden letters: Haraldr.

"Harold," John read. He glanced at the Seer. "You come from the far seas."

Haraldr made no acknowledgement of his speculation. John turned and stared out into the night.

"In the end we are all alone," he murmured. "No god or mortal will offer their saving hand."

He turned again to find Haraldr, the Seer, gone.

* * *

John returned to Rome when the leaves turned green, and the flowers began to bloom, but his heart grew with increasing unease as Haraldr's words hang over him like a sword. The Emperor grew weak while the Senate expanded in power, the Imperial Court watched worriedly while the rumours crumbled the Court from within.

Emperor Vespasian passed along with the spring. Forewarned by the Seer, John was able to escape a similar fate, though the same could not have been said for some of his friends. The Court struggled with uneasy transition and Marcus fell; John watched as he was stoned to death on grounds of treacherous intent. Whether the accusation was true, John did not know: there was no absolution nor resolve in Marcus' eyes as he gave John one last look, taking the truth with him to the grave. Titus, son of Vespasian, succeeded the throne, but rumour was rife of his dallying with Benerice, the Jewish Queen, and the Court failed to find peace. Then a powerful Senator by the name of Greer raised question of the Emperor's untimely demise, and controversy reigned over the trusted Praetorian Guards; thus John left Rome and found himself near the shorelines again.

He lingered in Naples for a while, until the day started to turn unbearably warm; then he went to Herculaneum, where he caught wind of Senator Greer's hunt for the Seer. From the hearsay in the market he was able to gather that Haraldr left Naples for the Mountain, and there on he went to Pompeii.

The next time John's eyes befell Haraldr, there was considerably less mystery about the man: John had found him cornered, exposed under scorching noon sun, in the town square with a spear to his throat.

"Witchery," the soldier that held the spear hissed. "You must be the so-named Seer, Hade's poison to Minerva herself!"

Haraldr appeared to be noticeably more frightened than the last time someone put a threat on his life. "I am Haraldr of the Far Seas," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I am a historian by profession and astronomer by avocation. I gazed upon the stars last night and saw the impending storm, there is no witchery that you speak of!"

The soldier replied with a suspicious grunt and a push of his spear. Haraldr bared his neck, but only a little, his eyebrows scrunched together in evident pain. His eyes slid over the soldier's shoulder and met with John's, widening; a shadow flitted across, almost too quick to be noticed.

"Leave him be, _principes,_" John called, stepping forward.

The soldier turned his head, saw John's Praetorian style of wear and lowered his spear. "My liege," he said. "You were away from Court for a long time. All those who answer to Emperor Titus were given the order to find the Seer and stop him from spewing forth lies that undermine the Empire."

"So I heard," John said, smoothly. "Tell me, _principes,_ do I not answer to Augustus himself?"

The soldier faltered. John generously offered a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Do you think Augustus will look upon you favourably, when the subject of his pursuit is slain without question or word?"

The soldier frowned but did not back away. He eyed John with discreet suspicion, one that told John Senator Greer had much more power now than before. "Pardon me, my lord," the solider said, "But I cannot let the Seer escape again. There is a holding cell nearby, I will await Augustus' instruction with him there -"

"So be it,"John interjected, placing a firm hand on Haraldr's shoulder. "I will escort you both. Lead the way, good solider."

John withdrew his gaze from the soldier's retreating form to find the other man completely placid again. All traces of fear had gone from Haraldr's face, like a cloak has been drawn over his features; the blue eyes no longer owlish, but composed.

"Still the subject of fascination, I see," John murmured.

Haraldr made no reply, nor did he move. John searched is face for the ghost of a smile that he expected but found none; Haraldr looked worn and troubled, more so than their last brief encounter.

"What troubles you, Seer?" John asked quietly. Then, when no answer came forth, John nudged him gently. "You have the gift of foresight. Perhaps you would look into your future now, and tell me what you see."

Haraldr turned and met him in the eye. "Sooner or later, death claims us all," he said.

Startled, John was struck with silence. The soldier noticed their delay and doubled back, frowning. "There is no tarrying your fate, Seer," he sneered, and gave Haraldr a rough shove.

Haraldr stumbled forward. John turned sharply and seized the soldier's arm, "Hold your temper," he said, steadying Haraldr with a hand. "Your leg," he asked, "What ill fate befell it?"

Haraldr glanced at him, then at the solider, offering no reply.

"I see," John said slowly. Then he straightened. "Onto the holding cell, _principes_," he ordered, keeping his hand behind the small of Haraldr's back. "The Seer and I have much to discuss."

* * *

Haraldr appeared to be in considerable pain when they reached the holding cell. John scanned the place, it was dark and humid with no window, the floor laid with only the barest of straws, smelling oddly of urine. He stole a glance to Haraldr's face - the man's features were drawn again into an unreadable blank.

"Is there nowhere else?" John asked, turning to the solider. Then, sensing the other man's sneer and rising protest, he held out a hand. "Have you any experience in coaxing the truth out of unwilling lips, solider?"

The soldier shook his head. John smiled humourlessly.

"Then trust me when I say the Seer will never impart any truth or secret in a foul place such as this. Find us somewhere else."

The solider considered this for a moment, then abruptly got up to leave. "There is a room behind the deserted Temple of Bubona," he said. "But I will need to inform my legion so it can be properly guarded."

John gestured his gracious assent. "As long as you leave the questioning to me," he said. "Lead the way."

Haraldr's eyes met with his as they were making for the door once again. Something faltered in the man's features, as his brows were drawn together in a mix of confusion and gratitude. "My liege," Haraldr said, softly.

John averted his gaze. "Don't fall so easily for small comforts now, Seer," he said, more harshly than he had intended. "I still expect the truth."

The light darkened in Haraldr's eyes, and John felt a sudden irrational pang of guilt. When he found his gaze again, the other man's face was unremarkably mild once more.

"The truth helps no one, my liege," Haraldr said.

* * *

The journey to the deserted temple, with seven grim faced warriors, was an uneasy one. John was able to take charge simply by his status alone, for the Prefect of the Praetorian Guards still commanded respect despite the suspicions raised by the Senate, but it was not wielded willingly. Having demonstrated to the soldiers that he could overcome _all of them_ at once should the need arise, John was finally able to sit down with the Seer alone.

Haraldr, who watched the struggle of physical and mental prowess between John and the rest of the guards with startled, owlish eyes, was once again impeccably calm as he sat on the stone floor, in a meditative position. John watched him, and he gazed back; there was nothing untoward or revealing in those eyes.

"I am left without friends," John began softly. "You were right about Marcus, and some others." Then, when no reply came forth, "Your knowledge is profound. Do you see it from the stars?" He said, glancing upwards.

Haraldr smiled. "The stars do not concern themselves with mortal life."

"Then how?"

The man peered at him. "Are you familiar with the name that I carry?" he asked, inconsequentially, "Haraldr."

"You said you come from the Far Seas," John replied, befuddled. "I'm not familiar with the name, _viator_."

Haraldr smiled. "It means _leader of the army_," he said, and John blinked; something changed in Haraldr's expression then: a strange mix of resolve and valour. "There are many eyes in the Empire, Master Rhys," he said quietly, "They watch for me."

John abruptly straightened. "The _Frumentarii_," he said with disbelief, then,"Nay, I laid eyes on our leader once, he looked nothing like you."

"Nathan was a dear friend of mine," Haraldr answered, and there was something off in his tone: dismissive, aloof. "He and I had a disagreement as to how the Empire is best protected."A pause, then, "In the end, he was the one to stand on the hearth, in a manner of speech, so the true scope of our influence can be shielded from unfriendly eyes."

Dumbfounded, John sat back and said nothing. After a few moments Haraldr's gaze fell to the ground, and John saw a flitting glimpse of the pain; he frowned.

"He fell because he made himself known," John said. He leaned close when Haraldr winced visibly. "Then why do you conceal yourself? Why not avenge his death?"

Haraldr shook his head. "The power at Court hangs by a delicate thread," he replied, voice steady. "Parthians watch closely in the east. It serves the Empire ill to wage a civil war." Then, upon seeing John's aghast expression, "You said you wanted the truth, Master Rhys," Haraldr's face was mild again, though his words carried a heavy weight in John's heart, "I never said you were going to like it."

John was silent for a few moments. "The poison with Vespasian was already too far gone when I returned," he said finally. "Time was against me."

Haraldr lowered his eyes. "Time is against all of us," he said lowly.

"Yet what you have is akin to the gift of foresight," John prompted. "You can be ahead of time."

To his surprise, Haraldr laughed. A harsh laugh, grating, almost with punishment, the ghost of recent suffering clouded his expression. "I am not ahead of time, John Rhys of Rome," he said. "Nay, my liege. I was too late for it."

Then Haraldr looked at John with wide, forlorn eyes, and some distant horror stirred in John's chest; his gaze turned sharp. "Tell me, Haraldr, leader of the secret army," he said, clutching onto the man's arm, "What fate had you encountered, when I left for Rome?"

Haraldr flinched as if he was physically struck. He did not, however, draw back, and saddened blue eyes stared into his. "I am sorry," Haraldr said, almost too soft for him to bear, "Senator Petrus. I tried to come to her aid, but the savagery - "

John was hit with dizzying panic as the blood rushed to his ears. "No more tales," he demanded, giving Haraldr a small shake, his eyes clouding with fear and doubt, "What of Senator Petrus? _What of Jescha_?"

Haraldr said nothing, his head tilted laboriously to the left, eyes squeezed together in pain. Dazed, John lifted his robe and saw the terrible scars that befell his body, the torn flesh and the broken bone, root of his limp.

"Seer," he said, in horror.

"I am sorry," Haraldr whispered. "I saw, but I could not stop it; I am sorry -"

But John had already stopped listening; he left Haraldr alone in the temple as he commandeered a horse and made for Naples with all his haste.

* * *

_viator_: traveller.  
_principes_: basically what you call a solider with a spear.  
_Temple of Bubona_: where they worship the Goddess of cattles and cows.  
The _Frumentarii_ was the CIA of the Roman Empire.

_Vespasian was probably not poisoned, but everything else about Titus, the Jewish queen and the Parthian empire is true. Haraldr's name has Norse/Scandinavian origins._


	9. The Last Sail of Winchilsea, Part II

**The Last Sail of Winchilsea, Part II**

_London, England. The Regency Era, 1820_

Reese arrived in London by nightfall. He hopped off the horse and knocked on the door of The Diogenes Club, where he was received with a gracious nod and led to the Master Chamber.

The Earl of Winchilsea was pouring himself a whiskey when Reese entered, windswept and slightly breathless from the night chill. "There you are," he greeted, "So glad you could join me on such short notice, Mr. Reese."

Reese pursed his lips and refrained from pointing out that it was Finch's idea _not_ to bring him, his valet, to London in the first place; only to send a letter to tell him to speed to town at the _earliest convenience_ five days later. Despite all around reassurances that these things were quite common and a part of the Earl's _eccentricity_, Reese had not been pleased - he had a sneaking suspicion that Finch sought company alone in London for a secretive purpose.

"I know what you are thinking," Finch said suddenly, jolting him back to attention. The Earl gave him an amused glance. "I said I don't go to London when it's in Season, Mr. Reese, it is not the Season yet."

Reese suppressed a sigh. "What was so urgent that you required my immediate service, my lord?"

Finch peered at him over the use of the honorific. Three months had passed since their first meeting and the trial period was officially over, Reese was now a permanent member of the Finch household. After the first week Reese had decided that he was going to play the Earl's eccentricity to his advantage, and duly took up on Finch's offer to have dinner together, upstairs. His experience overseas and in the military seemed to capture the Earl's interest, and they held many riveting conversations over fine food, one that allowed Reese a glimpse into Finch's world - vivacious with knowledge, yet withdrawn from emotion. Finch smiled but rarely laughed; he was polite, amiable, and made cuttingly witty remarks when he was in a good mood; yet a part of him always remained distant, an unreadable chapter in the book. Privacy was at the centre of his eccentricity, but John Reese was never one to back down from a challenge easily. His first step to establish confidence in the man's companionship had been the careful use of the honorific, or the lack thereof - in many ways a playful provocation to the Earl's authority, so that he could see how far Finch could be pushed.

Reese found out with no small amount of amusement that Finch had no qualms over proprietal boundaries, as long as he did not overstep the personal. Finch answered to his given name with no objection, and only lifted a brow when Reese called him _my lord_ in clear exasperation over some of his more peculiar orders. (Such as entrusting Leon with the estate's finances in his absence, which Reese still object to till this day, based on nothing but the inherent distrust of the bouncy small man.) A strange friendship of sorts had begun to develop between them, he could feel, along with a vague sense of gratitude mixed with unease; for Finchacted like he knew and understoodthat Reese was not a man made for service, but a man who deserved equal respect. Having that respect was, for Reese, both relishing and unsettling.

"You look well," Reese murmured, as a preamble to _why would you summon me here if you were not taken ill_. A humourous glint entered Finch's eyes.

"More than well, Mr. Reese," he said. "I will be meeting a prominent guest in the Great Hall in... ten minute's time."

"In the Diogenes Club?" Reese asked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. The club was famous for its policy of silence. Finch smiled, and gestured towards the door that led to the Hall.

"In exactly nine minutes and forty three seconds time Charles Burton, the Duke of Sutherland, is going to appear through those doors," he said. Reese's eyebrows flick again; alarmed this time. Finch swung the amber liquid around in his glass and smiled some more. "He and I will spend approximately three minutes discussing our business."

Reese inclined his head, mildly perplexed. Finch returned his glass to the table with a clink. "Thereafter," he continued, "His Grace will make an attempt on my life. Which leads us to why you are here, Mr. Reese."

Reese nearly choked. "His Grace will make an attempt on your life," he repeated, blandly, forcing his face to be impassive. Failed. "_The Duke?_"

"I hear the Duke is a rather good shot," Finch said, in the same tone that he admired the weather. "Though I daresay you are not so beastly yourself, Mr. Reese?"

Reese had difficulty putting his astonishment in words. "Never tried shooting a Duke before," he said, choosing to settle for sarcasm. The corner of Finch's lips curved.

"Perhaps I should rephrase," he said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "There is a _likelihood_ that His Grace will make an attempt on my life. It is not certain, by any means. But I thought it would be must best not to take liberties."

Reese stared. Made sure it was not a jest to rattle him for amusement, then stared some more. "Will you be telling me _why_ His Grace is interested in your life?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"All in good time," Finch replied nonchalantly. He glanced at the clock. "Ah, speak of the devil."

The doors to the Great Hall opened on cue. The Duke of Sutherland marched into the Diogenes Club, and Reese was immediately taken aback; the man had a plump, affable face, appearing harmless and completely at ease as he smiled widely and clasped Finch's hands. No one said a word, and Reese could not help but notice that out of the two, Finch was the one who held more aristocratic affectation, his back rigid and smile contained. The Duke, however, did not seem to mind; they proceeded to the study and stood on opposite end of a desk.

The Duke tipped his hat off, and Reese saw the man was half bald, another feature that added to his innocuous appearance. He smiled again as he withdrew an envelope from his waist pocket and placed it on the table, pushing it towards Finch. Finch quickly unfolded the letter, swept his gaze over the paper, smiled and set it down. Reese watched with fascination as Finch fetched a pen and quickly scribbled down something, pushing the paper back; the Duke smiled again as he too glanced at the paper, and pulled out his own pen. They repeated the dance a few times until at last Finch double underlined his previous script and tapped the desk twice. _Final offer_, his eyes said.

The Duke's smile turned cold and calculating. His hands went slowly to the inside pocket and there was a flash of teeth; Reese tensed immediately, his hand going for the hidden dagger underneath his waistcoat. Then the Duke blinked - the affable smile was back, and the moment dissipated.

The Duke produced a box of stamp wax, and sealed the document once again. They shook hands, smiling as if the dealing had been particularly pleasant, and Reese exhaled; his eyes remained fixed on the Duke's back as the man made his gracious retreat and disappeared through the door.

"Riveting," Reese murmured, when they were alone in the Master Chamber again. Finch eyed him with amusement.

"I'm sorry you didn't get a chance to shoot a Duke," he said. Then, in an ominous undertone, "This time."

Reese's eyelids twitched. "I would prefer if the opportunity didn't present itself again," he said. "As much as I might enjoy it, it might tarnish your reputation, _my lord_."

A slow smile spread across Finch's face. "That's exceptionally kind of you," he said, as if he was just offered a compliment, "Would you like a whiskey yourself?"

Reese rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

* * *

They returned to Kirby Hall, the Finch family estate, the afternoon after next. Finch made for the drawing room as Reese bounced downstairs for the tea, where he was dutifully presented with a silver tray by Leon.

"Calling cards," Leon said, rubbing his hands together. "Left by lords, ladies and company while His Lordship was out."

Reese glanced at the tray and saw a varied stack. He lifted his brow. "Not a single visitor for three weeks, and all this in the one week that His Lordship happens to be out of town?"

Leon edged close with a surreptitious look. "They dare not come when His Lordship is at home," he said in a hushed whisper, "They think His Lordship is a Vampire."

Reese fought the urge to smack Leon on the head. "Are you quite done with the silvers?" he asked, appearing wholly indifferent. Leon deflated.

"I was going to bring His Lordship tea..."

"Leave that to me," Reese said smoothly, balancing two trays easily. "While you are at it, clean the broom cupboard, too; see if you can find any skeletons that His Lordship had used and forgot to throw out."

Reese sauntered upstairs ignoring Leon's flailing protest. He found Finch in the drawing room unbuttoning his waistcoat, the fire being evidently too warm in late spring; Reese quickly closed the door with his foot.

"Let me," he said, settling down the trays.

"You seem to have your hands full at the moment," Finch answered lightly. "Not to be fastidious, but Lady Morgan severely frowns upon tea stains that are left on her calling cards."

Reese ventured a grin as he stalked close and replaced Finch's fiddling fingers with his own. "When are you not?" he murmured.

Finch smiled bemusedly. "When am I not what, Mr. Reese?"

"Fastidious," Reese replied boldly. He stole a glance at Finch's face - the smile seemed genuine, and it did not falter.

"You are learning fast," Finch said, wry. "Perhaps I've let you on too many of my secrets."

_Not nearly enough_, Reese countered in his mind, and smiled placatingly. He freed Finch from the waistcoat and proceeded to pour the tea, offering it on a tray.

"Would you like to go through your calling cards?" Reese asked, when Finch had taken a sip and relaxed minutely into the sofa. Finch didn't lift an eyebrow.

"Read them to me," he said.

Reese obeyed. "Lady Mathilda Brighterton," he read, "Sir Gregory Fitzwilliam. Sir Winston Appleby. Lord Logan Pearce. Lady Maxine Angelis, twice. Lord Patrick Downing. Miss Caroline Turing. Lady Alicia Corwin. Lady Zoe Morgan, three times... and Leon left a note saying one Mr Will Ingram stopped by last night," he finished.

Finch's eyes opened abruptly at the last name. "Mr. Ingram?" he repeated, alarmed. "Did he leave a message?"

"No," Reese said, frowning as he turned over the hastily scribbled note. He pondered for a moment. "I didn't even know Leon was literate."

Finch snapped his head up as if jolted. When Reese raised a questionable brow, he merely said, "Oh, you will be surprised what Leon can do," smiling good-naturedly.

"He gets up to no good," Reese countered. "Just last week I saw him pluck something from the garden, boiled it, and added them to Fusco's tea..."

"Milkwort roots," Finch replied idly while sorting the calling cards into two stacks. "It's a Chinese herbal remedy used for treating coughes and excessive phlegm."

Reese eyed him dubiously.

"Oh it works," Finch said. "Haven't you noticed the increase in the steak quality since Fusco got better? The sauce used to be so thick..."

Reese promptly blanched. Finch grinned, his eyes gleaming mischievously.

"My lord," Reese said, flabbergasted.

"That exotic formula of a lamb you weren't so fond of a fortnight ago?" Finch went on unabashed, "Leon's secret recipe. It's a shame you didn't like it, the combination of the lamb and spices would have helped with the, ah, shall we say - male competence."

Reese recoiled in horror. Finch let escape a strangulated snort of a laughter and Reese looked up in alarm, in time to see Finch dabbing at the corner of his eye with his handkerchief. "Oh, Mr. Reese," he sighed, "You are one of a kind."

Reese narrowed his eyes in annoyance. "Thank you, my lord," he bowed, sarcasm dripping in every word, "I learn from the best."

Finch's mouth twitched. He finished the last of the tea and set the cup back on the tray, straightening as he did so. "Well?" he said.

Reese blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"You have a question," Finch said. "In fact, you probably have many questions. But I can see one right now, so out with it. What do you want to know?"

Reese scowled. What he really wanted to know, of course, was the contention between Finch and the Duke, but this was neither the time nor the place. He knew better than to strike early, so instead he asked: "Why Leon?"

Finch smiled. A knowing, enigmatic smile, one that made Reese feel distinctly uneasy whenever he encountered it. "Everyone in this household is unique," he answered slowly. "Irreplaceable. That includes Leon."

Reese was bewildered. "How did you come to know Leon?" he asked. "He's Chinese. That's very unusual in England."

"We saved each other," Finch said casually. "I sailed to India a few years back and we encountered a storm, the ship was blown off course. We ended up on a patch of sea we've never seen before and watched a Chinese ship wreck. Leon was the only survivor on that ship. Without him, we would never have made it back on course."

Reese stared; not once during their dinners did Finch mention his own quests overseas. "My time in Sudan pales by comparison," he murmured.

Finch smiled indulgently as he shook his head, slow. "Your time spent fighting for the country is admirable," he said, softly, lifting his eyes in a keen gaze. "You are an honourable man."

In the back of his mind Reese wondered absently how they got from jesting to _this_. The irrational swell of guilt mixed with gratitude was so overwhelming that he had to fight hard not to avert his own eyes. "Thank you," he breathed finally, keeping his gaze steady, sweaty palms tightly pressed to his thigh. Finch smiled again.

"You do well, Mr. Reese," he told him, sincere.

Reese thought the words would burn a hole in his chest.

Finch kept the smile for a while, for his benefit, then held out the tray again.

"The stack on the left we can ignore," Finch said. "They call once a quarter because _propriety_ dictates so." he said the word 'propriety' as if it left a sour taste in his mouth. "What they really think is that I will jump at their necks the moment I actually allowed them through the door. Those on the right, however," he gestured towards the smaller stack, "Do warrant a return call for a variety of reasons."

"Shall I send out your calling cards?" Reese asked.

Finch hesitated. There was an unmistakable frown on his face: the man was clearly reluctant to detract social calls from his working hours, whatever he was working on, and social calls troubled him; on the few occasions Finch did received guests, Reese had seen the way his eyes glazed over when the conversation ventured from boring to downright dreadful. He straightened.

"My lord," Reese murmured, and Finch looked up; his eyes imploring.

"Do you trust me?" Reese asked softly.

Finch lifted his brow.

"You did promise never to lie," Reese prodded gently.

Finch's expression turned amused. "I did," he said, not breaking his gaze. "And I do."

Reese smiled.

"Then allow me."

* * *

Finch spent the next week locked in his own study, sorting through the Estate's finances. Reese took the chance to excuse himself for a trip to the village, where he met with Miss Kara Stanton, his handler at the War Office and partner on the outside.

Kara took one look at him in Griffin's Head and grimaced. "Sentiment," she said, as Reese sat down with two pints of ale.

"Beg pardon?" Reese frowned.

"Sentiment," Kara repeated, "You reek of it."

"Drama," Reese countered, "You are made of it."

Kara grinned. "You are questioning over your _feelings_ for His Lordship," she said.

"Never one for small talk," Reese said sardonically.

"Never one for sentimental nonsense," Kara countered. "Unlike you."

Reese's eyes slid sideways. "Careful now, Miss Stanton," he said, "Or I could get up and leave. Then you'd be left alone in a pub, an unmarried woman all by herself_._"

"Imagine the horror," Kara said in a sarcastic whisper. They smirked at each other over a drink, then Kara straightened again.

"You think the Earl is a good man," she declared, without preamble or purpose.

Reese said nothing.

"Because he thinks _you_ are a good man," she continued.

Reese's remained silent, but his face tightened visibly.

"You don't think you deserve such a high praise," Kara mused, then her smile turned into a vague sneer. "You see, John," she leaned close, "I _know_ you. His Lordship?" She shook her head. "What would he think when he found out what you did? A disgrace to the household? Immediate termination of your employment? Kicked out with no references? No," She said, smiling softly now, "None of those consequences matter to you. You know what matters?" Her sweet breath ghosted over his ear, "The evidence behind his misdealing with the War Fund." Her eyes hardened as John stared back at it, blank. "_That's_ what you are there for. Not making a comfortable living in the country."

Reese was silent for a few moments.

"So you come to me with nothing but praise," he said, finally, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"I come to you to put you in your place," Kara said, her voice hard as steel. "Don't live under the illusion that the slate had been wiped clean, John. There are no clean slates for the likes of our kind."

She held out her hand and studied it under the candlelight; the invisible blood. Reese had nothing to add to that.

"Use the sentiment to your advantage," Kara said suddenly. "If the Earl thinks you are a good man, let him. Get close to him. We need those written transactions, to see who he is dealing with and where the money goes to. _Do your job._"

Reese replied with a stoic stare. "Who says I'm not?" he said, pushing an envelope towards her. Surprised, Kara opened it to reveal an invitation card.

**_Evening Ball_**

_The company of Miss Kara Stanton is requested at Kirby Hall, May 15th at 6 o'clock, p.m._

_Gratefully,_

_Lord Harold Finch, (The Rt Hon.) Earl of Winchilsea_

"The Earl is hosting a ball?" Kara's eyebrows shot off through the ceiling. "The eccentric, reclusive, solitary, never-socialise-with-the-_ton_ Earl of Winchilsea?"

"You forgot _vampiric_," Reese supplied helpfully. Kara laughed incredulously.

"If he hosted balls more often, we wouldn't have sent you in the first place," She said, amazed.

"Tell Mark to find a better tailor," Reese said, looking vaguely smug now, "His Lordship is very peculiar about the formal style of dress."

For once, Kara had no cunning comebacks. She turned the card over and over again, well and truly astonished, asking finally, "What did you _do_?"

Reese hid a smile under his drink. "My job," he replied. "With a hefty dose of _sentiment._"


	10. The Impossible Cure, Part II

_From part II onwards the chronology of the eras will no longer follow each other, but their stories still connect._

_Also the Post-Apocalyptic era is cracky sometimes, because Nathan is still alive and Harold is less damaged. They need a few laughs even at the end of the world, right?_

* * *

**The Impossible Cure, Part II**

_The Stronghold, Post Apocalypse, 2107_

Harold yelps as his foot makes contact with something warm and alive. "I'm armed!" he warns, scrambling in his pockets frantically.

"It's only me," a vaguely bemused voice tells him as the obstruction to his door slowly unfolded itself. Harold jumps back; John stretched himself to full form a moment later. He peers at Harold's torchkey with a mildly amused look.

"You are holding it all wrong," John points out helpfully. "I really don't think this qualifies as being armed."

"Oh for Aurora's sakes," Harold exclaims, more than a little annoyed. He lowers his torchkey anyway. "Third time this month. What is it you are looking for this time? _Sentiment_?"

"I uh, came for a checkup," John says, grinning unabashed, completely without shame.

"You are _fine_," Harold says, looking him over. John had grown a little thin, but nothing out of the ordinary; his cheeks is no longer sullen and his eyes are brighter than before, which Harold takes as a good sign. "I wouldn't believe it myself, but you healed quite nicely. _Now kindly remove yourself from my door._"

John sidesteps him into the shadow and leans against a wall. The lighting is questionable at best in the corridor, but somehow Harold still has the distinct feeling that the man had an entirely inappropriate _lewd_ look on his face, half flirtatious, as if he is expecting to be invited in.

"No," Harold says, unprompted.

"What," John says, smirking.

"I'm not taking in a stray," Harold says. "Go somewhere else, Mr. Reese. In fact, go to Leon, I think he'd be more than happy to take you in."

"If you had any idea what Leon wants to do to me you'd know what you just suggested is_ pimping_," John replies.

"Please stop," Harold mumbles. John pokes his face out of the shadow again and Harold sees a wide grin.

"Give the poor homeless man a shower, _please_," John says. "Aren't you all under some Hippy's oath? Help in whatever way you can?"

"The Hippocratic Oath," Harold says, seething; he is sure this unshakable patient is just prodding him for fun. "And it's much more complicated than that, above all _do no harm_ -"

"Which you will be violating if you throw me out," John says smoothly.

The door finally opens with a crack and Harold throws on the light. "What do I need to tell you to get you on your way, hmm?" he says, exasperated, "_You smell fine, Mr. Reese_? Because as inappropriate as it is, I -"

He turns, and his gaze freezes on the carpet.

"Sorry," John says, waving an apologetic hand, only to get a few drops blood on the door frame. For once this stubbornness of a patient had the decency to look sheepish, as he hesitates near the doorway, peering in with unmaskable interest.

"What happened?" Harold says, discarding the key on the floor with an audible clack. He grabs John by the arm and forcefully turns the man, inhaling sharply when he sees the damage on John's back. "Those are deep lacerations. Who did them to you?"

"A stray cat or two," John replies, dismissive. He smiles again. "How about that shower now?"

Harold gives him an annoyed look. "There is no way these wounds are touching water," he says.

"A sponge bath then," John says, hopeful.

Harold narrows his eyes. "Drop to the floor," he says.

John immediately does so with military trained swiftness and precision. No question, not even a look of doubt. Despite himself, Harold is secretly impressed.

"Strip," Harold orders.

John peers at him. "Well I was hoping for dinner first," he says.

"Strip," Harold barks again.

John obeys; a small smile that is too sly for Harold's liking tugging at the corner of his lips. Pointedly ignoring the look on John's face, Harold quickly gathers the medical supplies he keep stashed under the desk and kneels down to survey the damage; the lacerations were deep but clean, no grave injury, no infections (so far).

"Nothing worse than what you've already seen," Harold announces reassuringly. "I still need to stitch those together, though."

"Sounds good," John says, voice muffled against the carpet.

Harold hesitates. "It would be, but I have no anaesthesia," he says. "Not even lidocaine. I took the last to the hospital when there was a shortage, and..." he trails off, brows furrowing in contemplation.

John lifts his head a little to look back at him. "Just do it," he says, "I can handle pain pretty well."

Harold laughs, a little nervously. "I don't think so," he says, eyeing the laceration and doing a mental count. "This is going to need, what, thirty stitches? You'll go into -"

"Would it help if I told you that I like it?" John asks.

"- No," Harold says, determinate. "Besides, you don't."

John twists his neck this time, so he can get a proper look at Harold. "And you would know because?" he asks, eyes half lidded, voice playful but his hooded gaze uncannily sharp.

"I know you," Harold replies absently as he considers different options in his head. "Because you are my patient. I watched you."

John arches a brow.

"You asked for the morphine to be dialled down because you didn't want it to dull your senses," Harold explains, noticing his expression. He pauses for a few seconds, then adds distractedly, "Something I would have done."

John's face goes blank.

"Is this a comfortable position for you?" Harold suddenly asks. "I mean, of course we'll move you to the sofa, or bed, but if you can lie on your stomach through the night, I can get you some lidocaine tomorrow. If, of course, -"

"Just stitch me up," John interjects, with a small wave of the head. "I'll be fine."

Stubborn, _stubbornness_ of a patient.

Harold harrumphs, and decides against active protesting: he picks out a shorter laceration to work on first, one that probably needs four or five stitches instead of ten. He dabs some disinfectant on the skin, then threads through the first needle without so much as a warning.

"There we go," John proclaims agreeably, laying his head back down.

Harold stares at him in blatant disbelief. His hands does not stop working on auto-pilot, though, and its three stitches later before he asks, "...really?"

John flashes him an attempt at a languid smile, but he can see easily enough the clipped edges of pain. Harold falls silent, his hands steady despite the pounding of his heart (completely irrational, since he had seen much worse).

He places two fingers on John's jugular afterwards, just to see if the man's physiological response is as calm as his exterior claim to be. It isn't. John's heart is racing, the skin a little flushed, and Harold starts to worry.

"I think it's best if you take some antibiotics for caution," he says.

"How very caring of you, Doctor," John purrs.

Harold flicks it away as he gently helps John to his feet, and then to the sofa. "You've already stained my carpet with blood," he quips, "I'd prefer if you didn't add gangrene to it."

John stumbles over just a little and Harold catches him in time. "Steady now, solider," he says. "There's quite no need to prove anything to me. Or anyone, for that matter."

John's eyes slide towards him. "Are you going to finish what you started, or shall I?"

"I'd like to see you try," Harold says. Then, to the look on John's face, "No. No. I retract that, _do not try._ Surgical tape is all you are getting tonight, Mr. Reese."

"Then I'm going to stain the sofa too," John smiles. He doesn't sound nearly bothered enough about that. Harold furrows his brows again.

"Bed," he decides.

John's face splits into a wide grin and has the words _too easy_ written all over it. "Dinner," he counters.

Harold pointedly ignores him.

After a few more snipes and a barking order ("bed, _now_"), the insufferable patient is finally strong-armed into lying face down onto a pillow while another propped up his hip.

"You do realise doctors are not supposed to have intimate relationships with their patients," John says, voice muffled as he peers at Harold with one eye.

"_Now_ he knows the Hippocratic Oath," Harold says through gritted teeth. "Are you _sure_ you are not under any substance influence?"

John beams at him and Harold fights the urge to smother him with the pillow. Instead he tears off the surgical tape with brusque force, laced with petty vengeance, and adheres them with dressing to John's back with just the opposite: carefully slow and tender. John hums.

"Do not try my patience," Harold warns. John doesn't seem to take it seriously, though he does close his eyes and remained blessedly fuss-free for the remainder of the task.

At last Harold finishes with a cautious exhale. "I'm afraid you'll have to stay like this for the night," he says. "I suppose it could be worse?"

John makes a low noise at the back of his throat. Harold takes that as a yes and leaves the room, returning moments later with a glass of water and a book.

"Do try to get some sleep," Harold says as he placed himself on an armchair beside the bed.

John turns his head a little, peering at Harold again with one eye, the long lashes casting a shadow on his cheekbone. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you don't expire during the night," Harold says matter-of-factly. "Oath and all that."

A slow smile finds its way across John's face. Unable to tear away his eye for some illogical reason, Harold watches wordlessly as John rubs his cheek against the pillow and proceeds to stretch his legs out in a luxuriously indecent position.

"Oh for Aurora's sakes," Harold breathes. He drags his gaze away from the contour of John's lower body in time to catch John's smirk. "What are you, twelve?" he says, scowling fervently.

"You said get comfortable," John replies, innocent.

"I said get some sleep," Harold snipes. "Do you always sleep with your _gluteus maximus_ in the air?"

John stares at him blankly.

"Your posterior," Harold says, exasperated. Then, when no reaction came forth, "Your rear. Your _ass_, Mr. Reese!"

John promptly burst out laughing. To make matters worse, he had to go and wriggle the said body part to prove a point, shaking a piece of dressing come off in the process. Harold has to recite the first fifteen digits of Pi just to keep his hands from slapping onto the man's back, lacerations be damned.

"...two six five three five," Harold mutters as he replaces the dressing with deliberately light hands, "eight nine seven..."

John's ears perk up. "Are you really counting Pi?" he says, an amused glint in his eye that makes Harold's hand shake with temptation, "As an anger management strategy?"

"_nine three two three eight,_" Harold enunciates. He plasters the dressing back with two deep breaths.

"Wow," John says, impressed. "I could really use that. _Three point one four one five nine, must not kill this man. _It rhymes!"

Harold makes a strangulated noise in his throat and circles to the front of the bed to glare John in the eye. "Mr. Reese," he starts, -

- and John darts his tongue across Harold's lip.

Unsettled, Harold snaps up too quickly; he hits the lamp on his way. John watches him with purposefully neutral expression, his face patient and open, as if waiting for Harold to make a decision, and Harold fumes.

"This is _most_ unwarranted, Mr. Reese - "

Then John tugs gently at his hanging tie and Harold bends down instinctively, one hundred percent illogical and two hundred percent stupid, because John kisses him again, fully this time; slow and indulgent, coaxing open lips with tongue, making advantage of his daze with a playful nip here and a small peck there. Then Harold's mind floats outside his body for a moment, surveying the situation and analysing the result, looking for a solution and finding none, and the heart he forgot he had starts pounding again, roughly jerking him back into the present.

Harold stares at the smiling face, too stunned for words.

"Encore?" John prompts softly, a playful crease around his eyes.

Harold draws a stuttering breath. "Mr. Reese -"

"John."

"John_,_" Harold says, trying to smother the conflict in his voice. "You are - I am - This is - I don't - "

"Three point one four one nine five," John suggests.

Harold lets escape a desperate noise that is halfway between a sigh and a laugh. He backs into the chair again. John merely watches him with mild interest, the way Harold would a riveting mathematical equation, and Harold exhales fully, finding his voice.

"There is this concept," he begins, grasping onto the armrest with more force than necessary, "called transference. It is typically used to describe the redirection of a patient's feelings for a significant person to the therapist -"

John stops him with a hand.

"I have no significant person," he says simply.

Harold sweeps his gaze around the room, feeling wildly inappropriate, roused, and trapped at the same time.

"Do you?" John asks after a prolonged pause.

Harold's gaze drop again. John's face is impassive, a brow arched in casual patience, waiting; and Harold almost grows dizzy with the possibilities that comes from his next choice of words. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again.

"I -"

The front door slams open and Harold jolts; John looks up sharply, hands reaching out with lightening speed and precision to the glass on the nightstand.

"No," Harold says, just as John is about to smash the glass open, "It's okay, I -"

"Harold!" A voice bellowed from the living room, "What in Decima's name did you do to the carpet?!"

"- Live with someone," Harold finishes.

John's hands relax, though his face doesn't. "I see," he says, thoughtful.

The bedroom door flies open just as Harold's mouth does. A man in his mid-forties, of light brown hair and tall statute, appears in the doorway.

"Harold," the man says, with evident surprise and alarm.

"Nathan," Harold greets amiably. He turns his head towards the newcomer and smiles, a little sheepishly.

Nathan trails his gaze over Harold, the bed, and John, lingering for a while on the latter. John stares back, completely unflappable.

"I see," Nathan says after a few moments. He arches a brow. "So, do I still have my room, or will you turn that into an ER too?"

"Nathan," Harold pleads.

"I thought we had a no strays policy," Nathan continues, unabashed. "No offence, Mr. Nice-Ass-in-the-Air."

John coughs and Harold flushes a light shade of red. _Three point one four..._

"Out," Harold says through gritted teeth.

Nathan doesn't move a muscle. His gaze travel down John's exposed upper back and over the covered but clearly visible lower body, growing contemplative.

"For Aurora's sake, don't ogle my patient," Harold snaps. "We can talk in the living room -"

"Is this a new policy?" Nathan asks, amused, "No patient ogling? Because as far as our policies go they don't tend to work out very well..."

Harold pushes him out the room and slams the door shut.

* * *

The conversation with Nathan goes exactly like he would imagine it to, with copious empty threats on the indemnisation for not washing the carpet and snarky remarks on their respective choice of partners, each other included. Harold returns to his bedroom half an hour to find John staring at the wallpaper with boredom.

"What did I say about getting some sleep?" Harold says with fake annoyance, in lieu of an awkward opening.

John's face is relaxed when he retracts his gaze. "Your significant person?" he asks inconsequentially. There is a smile, but his eyes convey something else entirely, and Harold hesitates.

"Roommate," Harold replies finally, slow.

John nods. Harold waits in anticipation of further questioning, interrogation even, but none come forth; John simply closes his eyes and drops off to sleep.

* * *

Harold is jerked awake from a fitful dream at half seven. The bed is empty. There are a few blood stains on the sheet, smeared into long strokes, still fresh - made from when John rolled off the bed, Harold decides; the realisation jolts him from the chair and out the door.

"Where is he," Harold asks, breathless, shaking out the pins and needles in his feet. Nathan raises his head over the kitchen counter.

"Who?" he asks around a mouthful of cereal.

"John," Harold says, then, "My patient!"

Nathan rolls his eyes. "Shower."

Harold pauses. "Shower?" he echoes dubiously, eyeing Nathan with alarm, "How long has he been there?"

Nathan shrugs. "Half an hour or so."

Harold promptly swings around and makes for the bathroom door. Nathan calls after him, "Oh, so it's okay for _you_ to ogle the patient?"

Harold ignores him, knocking on the bathroom door twice. "Mr. Reese," he pipes, "I would highly suggest you avoid water in your wound -"

"- Bit late for that," Nathan mumbles behind him.

"And you didn't stop him why?" Harold says with an annoyed backward glance. "Mr. Reese," he knocks again.

"He was already in there when I got up," Nathan shrugs. "Come on, Harold, let the man have a shower in peace. Maybe he wants some privacy, you know?" He arches a brow suggestively.

Harold ignores him and presses his ear to the bathroom door. After a few moments, his eyes grow wide. "I'm going in," he says.

"What?" Nathan drops the spoon into the milk with a splat, "Harold! What if you catch him in the middle of -"

"The sound of waterfall doesn't match a person moving in a shower," Harold says breathily, fingers moving rapidly over the keypad in a master override. "Either he's not in there or he's stopped moving. _Mr. Reese_," he calls again, and pushes the door open.

The vapour steams his glasses for a brief second and Harold squints: there seems to be a heap under the shower head. The water seems to be running at a vaguely alarming colour, rusty from the old pipes, -

"- Aurora Almighty," Harold breathes. "John!"

Rushing over to kneel next to the unconscious man, Harold fumbles to turn the water off and does a quick survey of the damage with his limited field of vision. Diluted blood is everywhere, turning the bathroom tiles a rusty yellow, John is collapsed against the shower glass, a razor blade in his limp hand.

"What did you _do_?" Harold murmurs, gently peeling the man off. John's back is an unsalvageable mess, with gaping wounds old and new, the stitch breaking apart with raw, angry flesh. There appears to be new lacerations on his sides, lateral with the old, the cut line made by a steady hand, determinate and clean; the person who made the cut seemed to be looking for something.

Harold's gaze drop to John's hand again. A slither of a silver lies in his palm next to the sharp razor, already rinsed clean; the familiarity of it all dawns a cold kind of horror in Harold's chest.

"My God," he breathes, "Decima."

John's eyes flutter at the mention of the unspeakable.

"Mr. Reese," Harold says, lightly tapping John's face. "Can you hear me? _John. _Open your eyes."

John does, though it takes time for them to focus on Harold's face. "Hey," he whispers, "Sorry about the mess."

Harold stares at him in disbelief.

"I'm okay now," John says again, in an alarmingly placid tone.

Harold turns sharply towards the door. "Nathan!" he bellows, "Get my surgical kit!"

Nathan appears through the door two seconds later. "Wow," he says, "OK. What now, bathroom is OR One?"

"Alfentanil?" Harold asks without glancing up. He unpacks the surgical tools with lightening speed, hands one hundred percent steady. Nathan shakes his head. "Morphine? Any kind of benzodiazepine?"

"Nope," Nathan says. "I asked last night, supplies haven't come in. Not even lidocaine."

Harold growls. "I hope he's delusional enough for it to work," he says, "Because it has to."

"I'm not delusional," John mumbles, on cue.

"They never think they are," Nathan says, pleasantly. "Need a hand?"

"Roll him over, " Harold instructs. "Put his head on his arm for support. Good. Now get that bottle of Vodka you keep in the attic, the '79 one."

"Wh - how do you know about that?"

"_Now_, Nathan!"

Nathan departs with a sigh.

Harold places two fingers on John's jugular again and finds the pulse thready at best. John is watching him through hooded eyes, a small smile upon his lips, appearing completely at ease and hence_ completely crazy_ -

"Stay with me," Harold says firmly. "I've got you."

John's smile warms a little.

"What were you thinking?" Harold tries again, because TLC is something akin to the Hippocratic Oath, tried and tested and lasts through the ages, from Tender Loving Care to Talk Loada Crap, "Why didn't you tell me you could be infected?"

"I'm not," John says, voice a little stronger now. "Not any more."

Harold looks conflicted for a while. "You don't know that," he says, finally. "There could be more -"

"Which is where you come in," John interjects. "Find all of them before they take root, _please_."

Harold frowns furiously. "Where did you - how did you -" he stops, because it doesn't really matter, not here, not now. "You have good hands," Harold says at last. "You should consider being a trauma surgeon for Universal Heritage. We could use people with your skill."

John laughs, until he starts to cough, then he is too weak for even that; and blood oozes out of the wounds again, feebly. Harold wants to place a hand on his back for comfort, but could find no suitable spot, the skin and flesh marred by the horrors of war. He does notice, however, an X shaped birthmark on John's neck; and in a completely insane moment of compulsion, Harold reaches out to stroke the birthmark tenderly with his hand.

John draws a soft breath, glancing backwards, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and threat of impending shock. "Harold," John says, barely above a whisper.

Harold bends down a little lower, and realises he is still wearing the same tie from yesterday. The silk fabric dips in the puddle and John wraps one finger around it, smiling; his eyes speaking more than words.

"You are waiting for me to lose consciousness," John murmurs.

Harold tightens his jaw so that he would not avert his gaze. He does not reply.

"Thank you," John says.

Harold's brow jump.

"For saving my life," John continues.

Harold closes his eyes for a moment, pained. "Why don't you tell me again after you wake up," he says.

"Is this where you tell me don't walk towards the light?" John says, smiling.

"There is no light," Harold says. "We walk in the dark, Mr. Reese."

"That sounds familiar," John murmurs. His eyes are sliding close now; each time he opens them with greater difficulty. His fingers twirled around Harold's tie, giving it an almost imperceptible tug, and Harold makes the most irrational decision of his life; he bends down to kiss John, warming the blueish lips with his own. He feels John's mouth curve into another smile, small and intimate, before going slack; Harold pulls back to see the man unconscious against the tiled floor.

A neat scramble of steps bounds off the stairs and Harold snaps up again, his eyes intent. He makes another decision then and there, the most terrible mistake or the most unerring of them all, he cannot tell, but he makes it nonetheless.

"If you are going to use all of it you might as well take a swig," Nathan's voice appear timely at the door. "Harold?"

Harold doesn't reply. His hands are already steady over John's back, making the first exploratory cut.


	11. Behind Enemy Lines, Part II

_Warning: explicit content ahead!_

* * *

**Behind Enemy Lines, Part II**

_France, First World War, 1916_

* * *

Reese winced as Finch sunk the blade into skin. Fixing his gaze on the outstretched arm, Finch's spare hand gripped tightly on Reese's shoulder; he exhaled only when the blade hits something hard.

"Here we go, Sergeant," he said.

Reese's face drew a masterful blank, no emotion or reaction; only his pupils contracted wildly as Finch dug out the shrapnel with one careful and swift flick.

"I hear Corporal Fusco got his rear shot at again," Finch said, wiping the blade clean on a piece of towel. Reese shrugged with a tight smile.

"Bigger targets are more likely to get shot," he said.

"How grotesque," Finch murmured. His eyes grow imperceptibly softer when he applied dressing to Reese's fresh wound. "Did you assign Leon with him again on the rounds?"

"Made sense," Reese said. He was breathing easier now. "Leon is a much smaller target, and much more deft."

"I hear they make a good team," Finch said. He gave the bandage a firm tug, making sure it would stay in place, then looked up. "L and L, or something to that effect."

"You mean Leon thinks he and Fusco make a good team while Fusco just wants to shoot his brains out," Reese said.

Finch's mouth twitched. He watched as Reese patted the bandage, flexed his arm and extended his fingers, finally nodding in satisfaction. Another wound brushed under the rug, shrugged off as if nothing had happened: survival as usual.

"Well," Finch began after a while. "I suppose there is no point in telling you to take it easy for a couple of days."

Reese gave him an amused look. He sat back down on the chair and pulled it in closer, until his knee was wedged between Finch's leg, and his face an inch away from Finch's own.

"I see," Finch said, the corner of his mouth quirking despite himself. "Not going to take it easy for even a minute, then."

Reese grinned but didn't reply. He leaned in for a kiss, lazy and almost half-hearted, except for the tight grip on Finch's thigh: one that conveyed a sense of urgency only Finch understood. Finch arched back a little.

"When is Miss Morgan scheduled to call?" he asked, quiet.

"Oh-three-hundred," Reese replied, eyes half closed. "We have time."

"You are under the influence of the good drug," Finch said softly. It didn't stop him from allowing Reese access to his buttoned shirt, however.

"No point in wasting the good ones," Reese said with a slight flick of the head, smiling vaguely. His eyes were glazed over, but something remained sharp behind the clouded pain, a persistent alertness that constantly accompanied their time in the trenches. Finch exhaled.

"I suppose Team L and L are not patrolling in this ungodly hour for nothing," he said, and Reese grinned again, slow, unmasked. Finch scowled a little, tepidly. "I _was_ under the impression, however, that we commandeered the bunker so we could conspire."

"Oh, we are conspiring," Reese purred. He nudged at Finch's cheek, ankles rubbing at Finch's calf. Something inside Finch's body unwound itself; it felt pleasant and rare.

"Come here," Finch murmured.

They squeezed themselves onto the bunk in a tangle of limbs and clothing, Reese beaming all the while, inhibition evidently lowered by the onset of painkillers. Finch repressed the urge to make a wry comment, because times of controlled recklessness were scarce during the war, and if a moment of forgetfulness was some luxury he could afford to dispense, then Reese could have all that he had.

Reese sensed a free pass and seized his chance. Finch arched a little into the exploratory mouth, the rough sheets rubbing his back with a slight itch. Hot kisses trailed down his chest, then tickled his abdomen, until a light stubble scraped across his navel and tongue replaced lips; Finch fell back onto the pillow, distracted.

"I think you are more lucid than you let on," Finch accused, without any real conviction.

Reese huffed a laugh. "I'm always more lucid than I let on," he said, eyes sliding upwards as his body slid downwards.

"You do realise crazy is the new sane?" Finch asked absently, "No one wants to go over the top. Appearing insane might just get you a one way ticket out of here."

"Is that why Leon has been eyeing my pencils?" Reese replied lazily, tracing an abstract symbol on Finch's chest. "Because he doesn't need a pencil up his nose to prove that he's crazy."

Finch chortled despite himself. "He did try to steal the Colonel's collector pistol," he said agreeably.

"If Burton wasn't so fond of the damned thing he might have shot Leon with it," Reese said. There was a morbid sense of humour in those words, spoken with a carelessness that came only with the everyday severity of the war. He bent down again. "Speaking of illegal activities..."

"I think I know where this is going," Finch muttered.

Reese rubbed his chin affectionately on Finch's thigh and grinned. "Permission to commit crimes of gross indecency, Quartermaster?"

Finch's lips quirked into a small smile. His hand found its way again into Reese's hair and gave a gentle tug.

"Up," Finch murmured.

The sheets ruffled quietly as Reese surfaced, the shadows of his face swaying gently by the lamp flames. Finch trailed a knuckle down against the contour of his smile, face contemplative with aching tenderness, and Reese's eyes softened; their lips met in a slow kiss, unhurried and defiant, withholding time. A rough palm swept downwards and Finch was caught by surprise; Reese's tongue swept over his lower lip, smiling against his sharp inhale.

"Insubordination, Mr. Reese," Finch advised in a slightly hitched voice before Reese could roll the sly remark off his tongue. Reese laughed.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Quartermaster," he said pleasantly.

Finch's pulse soared as Reese took his length slowly, humming; he watched as Reese closed his eyes, expression content. For a split second he looked far from the horrors of war, free from the weary impatience of the stalemate, unburdened by the responsibility over his men; and Finch was almost dizzy from the slow, surreal nature of their night time dalliance. His nerve endings prickled at the stimulation along with something else, a distinct sense of unease, an uncertain apprehension, and Finch buried his hands in Reese's hair, frowning, trying to banish the stray thought at the back of his mind.

Reese sensed his distress and glanced up. Finch met his gaze with a small apologetic smile, ready for a quip, but none came forth; Reese's gaze was calm and perceptive, he simply spread his palms outward and pinned down Finch's thighs.

"Stay with me," Reese murmured, fingers digging into his hip bone with a mix of urgency and certainty. Finch focused on the sensation, just this side of pain, and the chatter at the back of his mind quietened; the world became simpler, just for a moment. His ears picked up the pattering of the rain on the tarpaulins, the distant bark of a messenger dog, a solider stumbled over something as he came out of the bunker; the night was unusually quiet, theirs.

Finch rubbed the back of Reese's head absently, fingers massaging scalp; Reese leaned into the hand and smiled, his eyes gliding close again in a wave of gratification. Finch kept up the comforting rhythm until the buildup became unbearable, and his fingers tightened; Reese took the cue and swallowed him whole, humming encouragingly.

He came with a strangulated gasp. Reese angled his head back gracefully, swallowing as he coughed; lips curved into a self-satisfied smirk.

"Apologies," Finch murmured, struggling up once he regained control of his limbs. "Here, I'll get you some water -"

Reese waved him off, coughing and chuckling at the same time. He pressed close for a kiss and Finch leaned in, groping under the sheets blindly; Reese found his hand and guided it towards what he was looking for. Finch gave it a firm stroke, then another, and Reese buried his face in Finch's shoulder, breathing deeply; the low noise in his throat halfway between a growl and a whimper. Finch returned his spare hand to Reese's back, caressing it; he felt Reese's shoulder blades rise to his touch, and pressed a firm kiss to the top of Reese's head as Reese came soon after, shuddering, onto his thigh.

They maintained the overlaying position for a while, after Reese lazily cleaned them up; Finch watched as Reese smiled above him, eyes closed, long lashes casting a light shadow on his cheekbone.

"Your arm," Finch said, after a few moments. "The wound is going to break open if you support your weight like this."

Reese's eyes remained shut, but he rolled off to the side, obedient. They pressed tightly together in the small space, Finch's leg tittering dangerously on the edge of the bed. Reese hooked his ankle around Finch's calf and brought him in, until they are completely tangled together; he pressed his nose to the nape of Finch's neck and nuzzled, affectionately.

"Crimes of gross sentiment," Finch mused softly.

"I'm on the good stuff," Reese repudiated, smiling.

Finch huffed a small laugh. "One way ticket to London for Sergeant John Reese," he said.

Reese tipped his head up, his open mouth curved into an effortless attempt at a witty comeback, and Finch smiled; then the ground over their heads exploded.

The initial reaction, embedded in the half second it took for the body to obey the mind, was always stretched into a long, impossible eternity. Finch's eyes slid to the clock just as Reese bounded off his side and shielded Finch's body with his own - 02:58. _Timing error,_ Finch thought; while his arms go up around Reese's head instinctively, protecting the temple and the jugular from the falling debris. They stared at each other for a split second, then rolled off the bed together; the bunker shook violently from the second explosion that landed straight on top of the first.

"Fusco! Tao!" Reese yelled, just as raid alarms started going off. He shrugged on a jacket and hurled Finch his, already grabbing the rifle by the door. "Stay here," he said roughly, throwing Finch a sharp glance, all trace of mellowness gone.

Finch quickly buttoned close his shirt and grabbed onto the table as a third explosion landed somewhere close. "John," he said, "this is not -"

Fusco's chubby frame crashed through the remainder of his sentence at the door. "Sir!" he yelled, "Howitzers!"

"In the dark?" Reese said, "What are they, drunk with rubbing alcohol?"

Half of Fusco's face was smeared in dirt, rendering his complexion barely recognisable. "They are using incendiaries like fireworks," he said, dragging his hand across his face. "Un-bloody-lievable, at this hour - "

"Where's Leon?" Reese asked, stuffing a few grenades into Finch's hand and silencing him with a fierce look. Fusco paused.

"Aw shites," he said, eyes rolling in three different directions. "I said I'd cover him, and he said he'd follow - " he turned towards the door.

Finch's head snapped up in alarm. "Leon is - ?"

"I wouldn't count on it," Reese interjected forcefully. He grabbed a few grenades himself and stuck them in his pockets. "Lionel," Reese said in the same smooth and dangerous voice he always had before going into battle, "If you value your extra can of beef every week, keep our Quartermaster safe."

Fusco grunted. Finch looked wildly from Reese to Fusco, then to the table; where the telephone sat, oblivious and silent. The ground trembled as minor explosions took off around them in a rapid succession, then someone returned gunfire, the rhythmic _da-da-da_ of the automatic ricocheting far into the night.

"Christ," Fusco said. "This _is_ a bloody raid."

"Did you see any unidentified personnel on your patrol?" Reese asked, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.

"No," Fusco replied. "Damn, I knew it was too quiet for a full moon -"

Before he could finish, another bomb landed on top of the bunker and they all ducked in a downpour of dust; the phone rattling noisily on cue. Finch threw Reese a sharp glance, but Reese was frowning furiously with his gaze turned towards the door - there was a scurry of movement and a tangle of noises, closing in fast; a prolonged scream of terror and two sets of gunfire; Reese's eyes hardened into steel.

"Lionel, come with me," he said. "Finch - "

Finch whirled around and picked up the phone. There was static on the line, just as he had expected, and he watched Reese off, the tall frame disappearing through the flapping tarpaulin in the wind.

"Leon!" he heard Fusco yelp, then a muffled curse; and Finch strained to pick out the voices amidst the gunfire -

"- Bullet in your arse for once -"

"- It's a bloody fire bomb, you sucker -"

" - Well, liars get their pants set on fire, _innit_ -"

"- _Enough_, go make sure no enemy gets through the front line -"

A female voice interrupted his concentration. "IC for Sergeant Reese," she said pleasantly. Finch snapped back to attention.

"Quartermaster speaking," he said.

"Please hold on," the voice announced.

A few more seconds of static later, Zoe's voice appear on the line. "Raid," she said, before Finch could get in a word, "Unexpected -"

"I'm looking at it," Finch interjected, inhaling. "With all due respect, Miss Morgan -"

"Nathan's dead," Zoe said.

The air suddenly turned to blades in Finch's lung. "_What?_"

"Nathan's dead," Zoe repeated, in that steely voice of hers when she was faced with an impossible task, "Raid in the bunker he was visiting three hours ago. I was with him."

Finch's jaw muscles momentarily lost function. "I - He - _How?_"

"They are sending me off to Paris tomorrow," Zoe went on, "Listen, I don't have much time. Nathan asked me to relay a message - "

Despite himself, Finch drew a pained gasp."_He wasn't killed on scene?_"

"Listen to me, Harold!" Zoe's voice grew urgent, a hiss through the interference. "You know how our line of work is. Now, Nathan said, _any system can be compromised given enough time_. Does that mean anything to you?"

Finch blanked. "It - just means that," he said. "I don't understand - "

The bunker shook again and Finch inhaled a mouthful of dust; he coughed violently, holding the phone away from his ear. Zoe said something he did not catch, and when he returned to the line, the urgency had bled out of their conversation; she sounded weary instead.

"Harold, I'm sorry."

Finch came up empty for a response. _Nathan_. The name didn't sound like it belonged in the past, not yet.

"How," he asked finally, swallowing thick.

"It doesn't matter," Zoe replied softly.

It was god awful, then, probably messy; Finch squeezed his eyes tightly shut so the bloodied image would not rise to the forefront of his mind. The silence on the line stretched out, though it was probably only a second or two, and his peripheral hearing roared back into function; the gunfire rang through again, the scrambling of soldiers returning fire, the sharp hiss of an incendiary cutting through the night air. Finch exhaled. 02:53.

"We failed to see this one coming," Finch said, grasping onto the phone tightly, "Howitzers and incendiaries in the night. What happened?"

Zoe sounded pained. "I don't know," she said, a strange hollowness in her voice, "Harold, _I don't know._ We didn't see the raid on our end either, and Nathan," a desperateness in the name now, "Harold, Nathan was killed by friendly fire."

Finch felt his mind and body detach right there and then. His limbs were unresponsive, yet his mind remained crystal sharp; he had to commandeer every single muscle in his body just to speak the one word. "How," he said.

"We evacuated when the raid happened," Zoe said. "And someone opened fire further down the line. Thought we were enemy raiders coming down from the front."

"Only Nathan?" Finch asked again, his ability for coherent speech marred by shock.

"Yes," Zoe said. "I'm only conveniently injured so I can be sent back. Headquarter is furious. There is going to be an investigation -"

"No, there won't," Finch said, startling himself with his own voice. "Burton will bury it."

"A diplomat with Ingram's popularity?" Zoe said, dubious, "You don't know that -"

"Don't I?" Finch said harshly. "Burton was on to our system, he was suspicious -" he stopped abruptly, mouth hanging slightly open.

"What," Zoe said immediately, alarmed.

"- Nothing," Finch replied. He took a deep breath. "Burton knew you were passing intel to me about attacks on John's battalion. He thought I could get more from you, aside from early warnings of stealth attacks."

"Does he know we were close?" Zoe asked, cautious, "All of us?"

"I don't know," Finch said. "Nathan said he wiped the records of our collective attendance at base, but..." he trailed off, letting the machine gun fill in the silence.

"Well, I don't have any intel other than the planned raids," Zoe said, bitter. "If Burton thinks so highly of us, he can damn well come straight to us. But there is nothing in this stalemate that is worth knowing other than the fact that we will rot in those trenches."

Finch's brows unknitted in a wave of strange, disengaged softness. "Zoe," he said, voice low, "Take a boat back to London. After."

"Not gonna happen," Zoe said briskly. "If they're going to stick me in a hospital, fine, but I'm coming back the moment they declare me fit. For what it's worth, my _assets_ are still intact, so I can still get my way -"

Harold huffed a humourless laugh. The tension broke a little, and Zoe's voice softened.

"I managed to send Bear off before they came with my despatch order," she said. "Your messenger dog should be coming back to you with approximate details of the next few raids, so you can at least stay alive until I come back."

Finch closed his eyes again. "Thank you," he said, the words dragging a slow cut across his tongue, "We all owe you our lives. John and I. Nathan -"

"We'll make sure it was not in vain," Zoe interrupted. She knew what he was going to say. Then, "I have to go. This is probably the last time I will be able to call you on our own encrypted line."

"We'll say no more of this," Finch affirmed. "Goodbye, Zoe."

He could hear the rueful smile on the other end as Zoe exhaled. "Goodbye, Harold," she said. "Give John my best."

She disconnected with a click.

Finch stared at the phone cords blankly, unsure of how to proceed. Smoke billowed from outside; the bunker trembled as incendiaries hit surrounding roofs over and over again with blind accuracy. The whole line was awake, the chaotic noise crashing through him like a wave. _Nathan was dead_.

"Quartermaster!" someone yelled nearby, "They've hit the Depot!"

Finch jolted, his feet already out the door before his mind caught up. Outside the sky was illuminated with an eerie shade of red, the trajectories of incendiaries slicing through the sky like knife on skin. Reese was crouching behind the sandbags, rifle over shoulder and a spade in one hand, returning fire with a determinate look on his face; Fusco was bent over Leon's half singed head, dabbing a piece of cloth on a splitting wound.

"Finchy," Leon greeted weakly. Finch grimaced, forcing himself to ignore the stream of blood down Leon's face. He hobbled fiercely to Reese's side.

"Cover me," Finch said in an urgent undertone, close enough to be registered over the gunfire. "I need to go back to Supplies."

Reese didn't even spare him a glance. "No," he said plainly, swapping empty chambers with new rounds with practised ease, "They can live without a few days of beef. Go back to the bunker, Finch."

Finch narrowed his eyes in annoyance. "Sergeant Reese," he demanded, just as piece of ground exploded over his head. Reese pushed him back down decisively, one hand firm on his shoulder, and Finch never felt so much hatred for his injury or the war before in his life; he and his empty title and seemingly minor position, _and_ _Nathan was dead_ -

Then Reese saw the look on his face, and the grip relented. There was a momentary pause as Reese withdrew his hand, the other still pressed on the trigger out of automation; his gaze trailing over Finch's face, assessing. Finch stared back, painfully aware of his face being nakedly open, emotion bleeding out of every line in his body, until a grenade went off somewhere nearby and they ducked together, just in time.

"Burke! Brody! Watson!" Reese bellowed, whipping his head to the side. "Cover Fusco and make sure Leon doesn't die, I need to cover Quartermaster back to base!"

Finch blinked, frowning; then Reese's steady gaze penetrated his dusty vision. "Let's go," he said simply. Finch opened his mouth, but Reese gave a curt shake of his head, face resolute. "You never said it'd be easy, right?"

Finch pushed himself up without another word.

They made their way through the zigzagged trench, long and stretching miles across heathen land, soldiers scurrying back and forth in heated motion. Finch did a mental count of the bodies on the way, five, seven, ten; some of them simply unconscious, others would never wake up again. Finch pushed the name out of his mind, lowering his head as he rushed towards the supply line, half aware of Reese's hand on his back.

The Supply Depot was in chaos when they arrived. Half the crates went up in fire, the rest tumbled over by the brute force of bombs landing; there were casualties even here, low rank soldiers succumbing to surprise and smoke. Finch's eyes darted back and forth as Reese checked for survivors, his brows knitted tightly together.

"Bear is not here," he said sharply, when Reese straightened. "He was despatched half an hour ago, which means he was delayed, or - intercepted," Finch's heart wrenched in panic as he stared across the eerily lit battlefield. "We need to find him," he said, staring at Reese with widened eyes.

Reese retraced his gaze onto the vast stretch of No Man's Land, where a messenger dog would travel through the night, as crows fly. "Are you sure?" he asked, face perfectly set.

Finch's insides cringed in pain as he realised Reese would jump right into the line of fire at nothing but his word.

"My sources at IC were compromised," he said, fighting to keep his chest from breaking apart, "Ingram is dead."

Reese's eyes flashed but he said nothing.

"Zoe said she sent Bear with intel for the next few raids," Finch continued, not trusting himself with a pause. "After she told me Ingram left me a message. Zoe doesn't know the real scope of his influence, I think whatever he left has to do with what Burton wanted to know, and Bear has it."

Reese swung his rifle over his shoulder again. "I'm going over," he said crisply, without prompt. "Go back to my battalion if I don't return in fifteen minutes, or if you notice any - "

"No," Finch interrupted, his composure coming apart at the seams. "You will be shot in less than fifteen seconds."

Reese raised his brows pointedly. "Any better ideas?"

Finch closed his eyes and exhaled, long and deliberate. "I modified a listening device for explosives when we were forced to separate last time," he said. "It's embedded in your badge. I know the map of this terrain, I can give you directions. No light," he added, "And I can only accurately estimate for about up to five hundred metres, any more than that and I want you to come back, _no exceptions_."

For a moment Reese made no answer. Then his expression flickered, somewhere between fondness and wonderment, and he bent in for a quick kiss, a rough press of lip and lip. "Yes, Quartermaster," he breathed, of dirt and blood and tragedy and a smile, softer than time.

"Godspeed," Finch murmured, as Reese hopped out of the trench and swiftly lowered himself into the night.

* * *

_With a special thanks to Sassy J for her continued support and commenting =3_


	12. Ascent of the Machines, Part II

_I didn't want to overcomplicate the scifi element, so if you are confused, think of being untethered as being in the Matrix, except on Aurora, where Finch does his magic and holographs are more like seeable ghosts._

_Smut ahead! :3_

* * *

**Ascent of the Machines, Part II**

_Plant Aurora, 2799_

* * *

"If I were to speculate from your laboured breathing -"

"Snow's onto me again," Reese replies through gritted teeth.

"- that would be it," Finch says. He doesn't sound nearly concerned enough. "Would you be requiring any additional assistance?"

Reese feels his whole energy field stuttering as IGF drones whirred close, predatory. "No, Finch," he replies sarcastically, "I'm perfectly fine being torn into pieces all by myself, thanks."

Finch snorts softly. A flurry of code flies past his datapoint and Aurora lights up like a beacon in his field of vision. "Gate to Control is three jumps to the North," Finch says pleasantly. "Godspeed, Mr. Reese."

Reese ducks as another Decima beam comes his way. "Three jumps to the North takes me too close to NYC-17," he says. "It's the third time this moth. Snow will notice a pattern -"

"Not if I can help it, Mr. Reese," Finch interjects lazily. "After all, I _am_ responsible for your welfare right now."

Reese nearly flops offline when he narrowly misses an EMP bomb. "What are you going to do?" He asks, eyes narrow.

Finch doesn't reply. Reese hears the familiar sound of typing, the roll of chair away from the keyboard, then a final tap - his radio trace immediately goes dark, and the autoseeker drones whirl around noisily, losing target. Reese watches in fascination as a drone floats past him, an inch away from his finger, its tracker light dimming when its search returns in vain.

"I'm impressed," Reese breathes, as the drones scuttle away.

"Not surprised though, I hope," Finch says with a hint of smugness.

"After a year?" Reese's mouth quirks, "no, Finch, I can't say that I am."

Finch huffs a tiny, amused note into the receiver. Reese hears the sound of water being poured into a mug, and the next sentence he receives is drawn out slow, lazy and secretly pleased.

"Come home, Mr. Reese," Finch says.

* * *

INITIATING JUMP...

DESTINATION: CONTROL, AURORA

Asset: Reese, John

CARBON FORMING INITIATED...

halt

CARBON FORMING HALTED.

uplink only

UPLINKING INITIATED... 87%... COMPLETE.

_Welcome home, Mr. Reese._

* * *

Reese projects himself onto the doorway and sees Finch bending over his body, frowning slightly.

The technology of inter-galactic travel had advanced to an age where consciousness could travel as data and appearances could be projected accurately as holographs, leaving only the cumbersome body behind. The freedom to roam however, also came with risks: consciousness presented as electromagnetic waves could be obliterated with EMP, or data could be "lost" over long distance jumps. There was always the possibility of the mind being detached from the body, floating aimlessly in the universe, forced to interact only with other holographs, unable to truly feel. Untethered holographs would decay gradually, finding no release until at last the body withered - and in this day and age, a body withered very slowly.

Reese wonders absently if Finch would give him a clean break if that ever happened to him. He pads across the room in his holographic form (completely silent, as holographs have no weight) and gazes down at his face over Finch's shoulder.

"Do you always stare at me when I'm away?" Reese whispers.

Finch jolts violently and empties half a mug of scorching tea onto Reese's shirt. Reese inhales through his teeth instinctively, although he cannot feel.

"Ouch," he says. "You just bought me that last month."

Finch's head snaps up, and he pokes right through Reese's holograph. The magnetic buzz makes him frown slightly. "Don't you knock?" he says, peeved.

Reese shrugs. "Not if I can help it."

Finch angles his head back a little and gives Reese a proper once-over. "Is there a problem with the carbon formation?" he asks, "Or do you simply enjoy being untethered?"

Reese grins. "You were staring at me," he says, sidestepping the question.

"I expected you to wake up," Finch says. "Do you? Want to wake up?"

Reese raises an eyebrow and leans closer. Finch's hair stands up because of the static energy he radiates, and it's oddly endearing; Reese reaches out to flatten the tip, only his fingers go straight through Finch's head.

Finch stares at him, mouth pressed into a half amused, mostly unimpressed line. "I take it you were able to save Mr. Tao from the Councilmen?"

"Leon's been stuck to an asteroid so many times I think he's starting to enjoy it," Reese says dismissively. "It went well."

Finch peers at him. "Aside from the fact that Commander Snow's drones nearly tore you into pieces."

"There is no risk free life," Reese replies nonchalantly, poking at Finch's monitor idly and sending waves of electrical interference with it. Finch's eyes narrow.

"You cannot interact with anything physical while untethered inside Aurora," Finch reminds him. "I made certain of that myself."

"I know," Reese says absently. "It's kind of fun." He prods at the terminal and the energy current travels up his arm, making the holograph stutter uncontrollably.

"Can you behave?" Finch says, exasperatedly.

Reese grins at him and waves a hand around the window. The screen behind him flickers violently from the energy overflow, the speakers cackling, its noise prompting Finch to scowl.

"Did you install a camera here?" Reese asks. "There's way too much interference if there isn't."

Finch doesn't answer. He rolls a chair in front of Reese and says, pointedly, "Please have a seat."

Reese does, out of pure reflex; he goes right through the chair. Finch quickly averts his gaze, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small triumphant smile.

"Very funny," Reese mumbles on the floor. Finch coughs discreetly and leans forward a little.

"Would you like to return to your body now?" he asks, pressing the point home.

Reese shrugs. "There might be a new Number in soon. It takes time to adjust to either form, so I might as well wait here."

Finch considers him for a moment. "Hmm," he says, "pity."

Reese perks up. "Why?" he asks, dubious.

Finch doesn't reply, but holds out his hand instead. Reese's eyes slide sideways and sees Finch tracing the shape of his face, causing interferences at the edges, a warm fuzz of energy. "It's remarkably difficult to touch a holograph without hampering it," Finch murmurs, inconsequentially.

A slow grin splits across Reese's face. "Well Finch," he says, unable to hide the smug note in his voice, "you can always just ask."

"As opposed to what," Finch deadpans, "simply take?"

Reese's eyes sparkle. "I'd be up for that," he says suggestively.

Finch's mouth twitches again. "Close your eyes," he says, soft.

Reese does, and he wakes up in his physical form moments later. Finch has pointedly resumed the position he was in when Reese snuck behind him: staring down at Reese's face, frowning a little. Their eyes meet, and Finch's frown unfolds into a small smile.

"Welcome back, Mr. Reese," he says.

"You worry," Reese muses, as he allows Finch to help him up.

"You speculate," Finch counters. "How's your chest?"

Reese unbuttons his tea stained shirt to reveal a patch of slightly reddish skin. "It's seen worse," he says dismissively.

Finch's eyes trail over the X shaped birthmark above his left nipple. "I see," he says. "and your overall physical wellbeing?"

"I'm more than competent in corporeal form, if that's what you are asking," Reese says, smirking.

Finch peers at him. "Well I'm glad," he says, as Reese looms close with a grin. "Could you catalogue the stray books from shelves J9 to N1, please?"

Reese stops, and frowns. "I could," he says slowly, "but I thought -"

"What," Finch interrupts, smiling.

Reese stares at him for a moment. Finch arches a challenging brow and stares back; his composed figure retreating magnanimously into the chair, face perfectly set.

"Okay," Reese says, more amused than disappointed, "well played."

Finch's brow flicks again, lazily. "Impressed?"

Reese gives him a sour look and patters barefooted towards the dusty shelves.

* * *

It takes him three hours to catalogue every book on the shelf: from classics (_Homer's Iliad_) to the curious (_Only the Paranoid Survive_), and the down right boring (_Stress Fractures of Titanium_). Finch works away at the terminal in the meanwhile, sparing half of his consciousness connected to Reese's datapoint, registering every book as _read, worth re-reading,_ and _useless_. Reese tries discreetly at prodding in Finch's mind with no avail; he gets a wry _"404, the truth you are looking for does not exist"_ instead, which happens to be Finch's idea of a vintage joke. Reese gives up after a few more half-hearted attempts and watches Finch's mind-data flow by, limitless and vast, powerful and reliable, a comforting stroke over his own consciousness, luring him back to a forgotten sense of safety.

_Welcome home, Mr. Reese_, the login screen had said. He smiles despite himself.

Finally the books are catalogued into the system and there is no more excuse; Reese leans over Finch's shoulder and squints at the monitor sideways.

"Recoding Aurora's firewall again? You just did that last week."

"Defence is cutthroat work," Finch says, meeting his gaze in the onscreen reflection. Reese smiles.

"New Number?"

"No," Finch says, pushing himself away from the desk. Reese straightens.

"No reason why I shouldn't _think_, then," he asks, raising a brow.

Finch opens his mouth and curves it again into a wry smile. "Just ask, Mr. Reese," he says.

Reese does; but not with words. Finch responds leisurely to the kiss, allowing Reese to pull him away from the desk and into an armchair. Reese swipes his fingers across the nape of Finch's neck, coming into contact with the small patch of exposed skin, and suddenly touching is not enough: he dips down with his mouth, vaguely aware of his movement being a frenzied heat, not caring, wanting more. Finch doesn't object; he arches his head a little and inhales steeply, rolling the breath back out in a laugh.

"I thought the adrenaline would have metabolised by now," Finch says, more pleased than he is amused. Reese grins against his collarbone.

"Oh, this isn't adrenaline from the fight," he tells him. "In fact, I think it's something else entirely."

"Is it," Finch murmurs.

Two fingers slip under his chin and Reese allows his head to be tipped up. Finch is looking at him with impossible gentleness, a soft glimmer in his eyes, the usual sharpness mollified by the physical intimacy. Reese pauses for a few seconds to gaze back, then he smiles; noticing the lines around Finch's eyes crease. He straightens when Finch's fingers asserted more pressure upwards, and Finch's face falls into his shadow. Reese watches as Finch inhales his scent readily, eyes flickering, finally Finch's gaze settles onto his face. Reese brushes his hand lightly over Finch's temple, then removed the glasses, dipping down to press a kiss to Finch's eyes.

Finch's lashes flutter rapidly under his lips. "John," he breathes, caught in mild surprise.

Reese allows himself to linger there for a few heartbeats before drawing his lips downwards.

"You watch me when I'm away," he murmurs against Finch's cheek.

Finch inhales deeply, then opens his eyes. "Still fixated on that, I see," he says, a smile evident in his voice.

"Tell me it isn't true," Reese challenges, soft.

Finch pulls back a little, amused. "I watch you _all the time_," he says.

Reese licks his lips as he contemplates this. "I should be bothered," he notes, and at Finch's delicately raised brow, "I'm more bothered that I really am not."

"Eloquently put," Finch comments wryly. He tips his head sideways, expression sly. "Would you prefer if we had a discussion about your privacy, or - ?"

Reese huffs a laugh and straightens. One step back and the light floods on Finch's face again, prompting him to squint, his expression set ablaze by the setting sun. Locking his gaze, Reese slowly unbuttons his shirt, then his trousers, tossing them away haphazardly, until he stands gloriously naked, completely at ease.

"I see," Finch says, slow.

"Do you now," Reese drawls, smirking.

Finch frowns at him. "No, not really," he says, sarcastic. "you are but a blur to me without my glasses."

Reese takes a step closer and arches a brow pointedly.

"I see," Finch repeats, voice hitching a little.

Reese bows down again, his elbows resting on both sides of the armchair, his face inches from Finch's own. At first Finch stares at him with owlish eyes, as if startled, then they grow contemplative; finally they settle back into the calm and composed gaze that Reese has grown accustomed to. Reese watches Finch's transformation with a perfectly neutral face, completely impassive, until Finch placed a hand on his chest, palm-flat against his heart.

"You've let your tactical advantage pass," Finch murmurs.

Reese smiles but makes no reply. Finch's eyes draw over his face slowly, inquisitive; then his hand travels downwards and slides over Reese's already half erect cock. Reese inhales steeply through his nostrils, hands grasping more tightly onto the armrest. He dips into Finch's curving lips and arches into the deft hand, eager, until they find their rhythm; Finch's breath hitching in accordance with his. They continue like this for a few minutes until Reese's arm threatens to give out, and Finch abruptly stands up, giving Reese a gentle shove in the chest.

Reese blinks hazily and allows himself to be pushed back against a desk. His whole body is set afire as he watches Finch kneel down and take him, fully dressed and proper, engrossed and intent, every bit a king. The knowledge arouses him impossibly and Reese knows he would not last very long; he tugs at Finch's hair fervently, desperate as a warning. Finch doesn't back away, doesn't even slow down, his gaze flickers up and Reese sees the fierce resolution transforming into gentle fondness; he becomes undone. The climax rips through him with searing intensity and Reese fights to keep his head above water, gasping for air, his fingers grappling tightly at Finch's shoulder. Finch makes an attempt at swallowing, then coughs; his fingers still stroking languidly, guiding the last of the waves. Reese's hands trail over Finch's neck and rests against Finch's face,and Finch straightens up, faced flushed and eyes dark, lips curving into a candid smile.

"You are welcome," Finch murmurs, evidently pleased with himself.

Reese replies by covering the visible outline of Finch's erection. Finch's eyes darken imperceptibly, and something indecipherable flashes across his face. Before Reese can read into it, however, Finch's expression unfolds itself: soft delight and quiet yearning overtake the habituated loneliness, trouble lined around his eyes ceasing with momentary abandon. Reese doesn't search further after this: he lets Finch bend him over the desk, stretching him with nimble, well-lubricated fingers, then forgets as he pushes against Finch with requited fervour. He manages to come again, just before Finch does, and is incredibly pleased; he grins and looks back, straining his neck to watch Finch from half-lidded eyes. Finch appears to be caught by surprise, his mouth falls slightly slack as Reese's climax ripples through him, but he doesn't avert Reese's gaze. He thrusts a couple more times and inhales, steeply, his expression changing: there comes a fleeting second of naked openness, everything stripped to its barest layer, where emotions scramble forth and words lose their meaning, making Reese's insides ache, just a little bit - then it's gone. Finch's gaze settle back into a composed calm and his lips curve into a small smile, genuine but reserved, and they make a wry remark, pleasant and witty, altogether non-personal.

Reese blinks twice before he realises Finch is asking him something. "Sorry?"

"I said would you like to shower first, or shall I," Finch says, quirking an amused brow.

Reese makes a gracious swipe of the arm towards the bathroom. "Please," he says. "While I catch my breath."

Finch smiles and disappears through the glass door.

* * *

There is something odd about Harold Finch, Reese thinks. It isn't just the formal, vintage style of wear, or the glasses; the fact that he offered Reese a job, _a purpose_; the strange Numbers that he sends Reese to save across galaxies; or his choice of solitary exile on a deserted planet. It's his _distance_. Finch helps Reese to deflect Snow's relentless hunt on an almost weekly basis, while being nonchalant about their day to day brush with death; he doesn't sound overly concerned when Reese gets himself into a tight spot, though he always gets Reese out of it. He permits Reese access to the innermost structures of Aurora, but does not tell him where he gets his Numbers from. He sends Reese into potentially violent situations with a smile and welcomes Reese back with a smile, the latter being no more profound than the former. Reese knows that Finch cares, trusts Reese with his life just as Reese trusts Finch with his, but Finch doesn't dwell on it; he makes it as if they have a typical employer-employee relationship, instead of a former assassin and a mysterious genius sharing their lives together in a god-forsaken corner of the universe. Reese presses, of course, he prods and pokes, gathering information here and there, watching Finch's expression and body language, intertwining their everyday lives, from working hours to leisure, books with food, touch with smile, until one day Finch looked at Reese and said, "You can just ask -"

And Reese did; dizzy with the realisation that Finch knew the answer long before he had the question.

They shared the loneliness then, the gaping vastness of the universe above their heads, the two moons and sun of Aurora revolving around them in short bursts of day and night. Finch makes love to him, and allows the gesture to be returned, but the physical intimacy doesn't amount to anything more than what they already had; the wry remark doesn't become personal, nor does the gentle prodding generate extra information. As always, Finch grows distant when Reese steps closer, and reveals something intimate just as Reese is about to give up; it takes Reese three death-defying escapes to realise that what they already had was, in fact, everything.

It really shouldn't be enough, but somehow, it is.

* * *

Reese wakes up the next day to find Finch in the bathroom, holding a razor and frowning at the mirror.

"Let me," he murmurs, coming up behind Finch and finding his eye in the reflection. Finch arches a brow but does not protest; he hands over the razor and tips over his face, silent.

Reese rubs some shaving cream on Finch's chin and strokes a finger down the contour of his cheek, slow; of all of Finch's vintage quirks, insisting on shaving with a sharp razor is among the few that Reese actually shared, and one that he finds oddly fitting of the tacit understanding in their relationship.

"It occurs to me I never asked why you are so proficient at this," Finch says, eyes half closed.

Reese suspects that he already knew why, but answers anyway. "You have to make do with what you have in the army," he says. "Hold still."

They do this often enough for the moment to become benign: more domestic than erotic. Reese's mind drifts to their choice of breakfast - green tea and donuts, of all things - and he lets slip a grin, wiping the blade on the towel.

"You are in a good mood," Finch notes bemusedly.

"I am," Reese says pleasantly. "I woke up this morning and felt... took me a while to put my finger on it, but I felt happy." He smiles. "Must be this job."

Finch suddenly dips his chin, eyes snapping wide in alarm and Reese jolts, retracting the blade barely in time. He glances up to see a look of pure disbelief on Finch's face, and scowls.

"You can't be that surprised to see me happy."

Finch stares at him oddly, then averts his gaze. "I thought I heard a new Number come in," he says, peering over Reese's shoulder.

Reese strains his ear. "No there isn't," he says firmly, tipping Finch's chin back up to see a small droplet of blood oozing from a minute cut. He drags a finger across the tiny wound absently. "Why do you insist on calling them Numbers when the information you get clearly isn't a number?"

Finch opens his mouth to reply, then the computer chimes: the unmistakable vintage phone ring. Reese stares at him for a few seconds, then tightens his grip.

"I think you should call them premonitions from now on," Reese says, sarcastic. He holds out the blade again, hands steady, unhurried, confident. "_Keep still_."

Finch remains silent until Reese finishes the shave and hands him a warm towel. "John," he begins, then hesitates.

Reese turns halfway to the door. "Yes?"

Finch considers him for a moment. "I'm glad," he says finally, eyes trailing over Reese's face with a rare confession of vulnerability. Reese lingers, expectant: for a split second it looks as if Finch is going to say something, but he only exhales, and the moment dissipated.

They research about the Number in their usual fashion: treslinking over fields and fields of raw data. It doesn't take them that long to figure out the imminent crisis will take place on NYC17, their nearest supply star, with a population more than 8 million.

"No kiss for good luck?" Reese prods playfully as he lies down.

Finch's hands stop at the terminal. He looks back, and they stare at each other across the short distance; Reese's smile dissolving as Finch's face grows pained.

"Hey," Reese says softly, "What is it?"

Finch closes his eyes and opens them again, his gaze fierce. "Please be careful," he says, voice low. "Today of all days."

A distinct sense of unease prickles at the back of his neck, and Reese scowls. "Why?"

Finch doesn't answer, he turns from the chair and bends down over Reese's face. Reese stares at him, vaguely alarmed by the once again unreadable expression on Finch's face, and he opens his mouth - but Finch's hand is already over his eyes, gently swiping them closed, initiating the jump. The last thing Reese feels before being jolted out of his body is a featherlight brush of lips, its phantom warmth lingering, Finch against his.

* * *

_This AU is different from the ones before, in a way that it is more relevant to the central plot device of the story. By contrast, however, what the characters do here is most closely related to canon. All mysteries will be explained. I promise._


	13. The Last Sail of Winchilsea, Part III

_So after watching 2.20 In Extremis I realised canon is going in a direction that I cannot possibly catch up with, and the point of adding another canon companion piece to this fic becomes moot. So the canon piece will be an interlude (with epilogue to follow, possibly), while all the other AUs will form a complete story arc._

_Onto Part III now! More smut ahead!_

* * *

**The Last Sail of Winchilsea, Part III**

_England, the Regency Era. 1820_

"Not that I wish to be _fastidious_," Finch said. "But I'm highly uncomfortable being here."

Reese stepped behind him and met his gaze in the mirror. "Better to deal with them all at once than one at a time, my lord."

"Somehow the idea sounded more appealing when it was merely an idea," Finch muttered.

Reese fought to suppress a grin as he bent down to brush Finch's evening coat. "Are you not happy with the way I organised this evening?"

"You know that is not what I mean," Finch replied with a hint of exasperation. He allowed Reese to turn him and fuss around the collar. "Although I hear Fusco's losing his mind over the amount of extra catering he has to do."

"Fusco is losing nothing but the extra five pounds he has put on over the last three months," Reese countered smoothly. "It's about time he stepped up for the job." His fingers folded over the cravat deftly and looped it around Finch's neck with practised ease, finishing with a gentle tug. "There," he grinned. "Quite the beau, my lord."

Finch shot him a look of mild annoyance. "There is no need to get _motherly_, Mr. Reese."

Reese flicked his brow. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said nonchalantly, pulling a tumbler out of his pocket and giving it a gentle shake. Finch's gaze followed his hand with considerable interest,

"What is that?"

"More important is what it can do," Reese replied. He went over to the desk and uncocked the whiskey bottle, pouring liberally into the tumbler.

"Is it a novel drink container?" Finch asked.

Reese answered by extracting an orange, a knife, a packet of brown sugar cubes and a small bottle wrapped in an oversized label from his breast pocket. Finch looked torn between wanting to comment on the strange assembly of objects and the fact that Reese was able to hide said objects in his pocket, but settled for wry instead.

"Fusco is very particular about where his ingredients end up," Finch said. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Fusco won't miss what he never had," Reese replied amiably. He gave Finch a smug look and proceeded to peel the orange efficiently, popping a stray slice into his mouth.

"Will wonders never cease," Finch muttered. He eyed the small bottle of indeterminable nature with particular interest. "I don't suppose this will knock me out?"

"Angostura bitters," Reese said. "Ever heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"A secret recipe from Trinidad and Tobago," Reese explained. "They don't sell it overseas yet. Won this one from the locals."

Finch's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Over what?"

Reese smiled but made no answer. He dropped the sugar cube into the tumbler, added some bitters from the bottle, then gave it a gentle shake, before pouring the mixture into a whiskey glass. He met Finch's inquisitive gaze and grinned, adding the final orange twist with a flourish. "Viola."

Finch eyed the amber liquid dubiously.

"Bittered sling," Reese said. "Otherwise known as a cocktail."

Finch's brows lifted up. "Really," he murmured.

"'An excellent electioneering potion'," Reese quoted. "'as it renders the heart stout and bold'."

Finch's mouth curved into a half laugh. "Stout and bold, you say?"

Reese tipped his head sideways with a smirk, holding out the glass. Finch studied him some more, then accepted his hand and drained it, swift and decisive. Reese's mouth twitched.

"You didn't _have_ to take it like a potion," he said.

Finch pulled a face, contemplative. "It's..." his eyes lifted to Reese's face, and they are somehow brighter in the shade, "...captivating."

Reese arched a coy brow.

"Hmm," Finch said, scowling a little. "I do feel rather... warm."

"Warm enough to face the horde?" Reese asked, eyes creasing.

Finch didn't answer. He set down the glass with a clink on the desk and straightened, the air around him changing noticeably. Reese watched as a perfect mask descended upon Finch's features: mild condescension and profound aloofness over the perceptive gaze and small smile, the solitary Earl at his best.

"I'll take that as a yes," Reese said, holding open the door. Finch met his gaze with a slightly sarcastic inclination of the head, and strode out onto the battlefield.

* * *

Reese followed Finch downstairs to find the party already bustling with excited gossip. Music played softly in the background, flowers and light refreshments lined the tables, the floor chalked and the carpet rolled, ready for dance. Fusco was standing awkwardly by the entrance to the ballroom in the only formal tailcoat that he owned, looking distinctively uneasy as the night's go-to second footman; his face tightened when Finch approached.

"My lord," Fusco began, then shot a worried glance to Reese. Reese scanned the ballroom and recognised why: some of the guests were already huddled together, mouth to ear, over Finch's arrival.

"All here for the show," Finch murmured.

Reese's mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Kindly announce His Lordship's arrival, Fusco," he said flatly.

Fusco looked over from Reese to Finch, then cleared his throat.

"Lord Harold Finch, Earl of Winchilsea!"

All heads turned. Reese did a quick mental register of the turnout: fifty, maybe sixty; but the number of friendly faces were no more than ten. Some people were openly curious, a few maliciously so; others wore a mask of polite semi-interest, obvious that they were only here because they deemed it appropriate. He saw Kara wink at him from the orchestra, then Mark, looking pained as he dabbled away at the cello. Everyone stared at Finch, expectant.

Finch swept his eyes over the crowd calmly, then took a step towards a woman of middle age.

"Lady Corwin," he enunciated. "If you would allow me the pleasure of having this dance?"

Lady Alicia Corwin was the greatest stranger in the room - Finch's decision to dance with her first was exactly what society expected of him. Reese could not decide whether he should be surprised, or relieved, of Finch's sudden decision to follow propriety; it struck him as somewhat odd, though not unexpected. Then, as if Finch could read his mind -

"...stout and bold, Mr. Reese," Finch murmured, barely audible.

Reese's brow jumped. Finch didn't spare a glance behind; he was already extending his hand to Lady Corwin, smiling impeccably.

The crowd's interest in Finch was considerably mollified after that. Finch made all the right moves: talking to the right people in the right order, making the right joke at the right time. The lines in his expression creased a little, though not in the way that Reese was familiar with; they were marred by resigned patience and just a hint of sarcasm. Finch's eyes began to glaze over after the third dance: he appeared perfectly polite and mildly interested, etiquette impeccable; yet there was no trace of the enigmatic man that Reese had come to expect on a daily basis. Finch was, in fact, making himself appear _boring_; the effect was so profound that Reese couldn't help but be impressed.

The evening stretched out pleasantly. Reese manned the refreshments table while he kept a lookout on Finch; occasionally their eyes would meet across the room. Finch's expression would change minutely for Reese's benefit: a pointed glance here and a sarcastic nod there, over the particularly chatty lady or the insufferably dense gentleman, small moments that Reese found oddly endearing. He was in the middle of worrying absently over Leon, who appeared to be hyped on one of his herbal boosters, when someone tapped his arm. Reese turned to find Kara smiling at him, all curves and no warmth, dark eyes piercing.

"Mark couldn't find a suitable tailor in time," Kara said. "Thought it'd be less conspicuous if we didn't appear on the guest list."

"Of course," Reese murmured, wholly unflustered. "Glad to see he's putting his hobby to good use."

Mark shot him a sharp glance and went back to playing the cello, excruciatingly bored. Kara slid her eyes over Reese's butler outfit and took a salmon tart from his outstretched hands.

"Well?"

Reese knew there was no point in stretching out the small talk. "The trunk in his master bedroom," he said, delving straight to the point. "Finch keeps all his important documents there, locked."

Kara eyed him thoughtfully. "You need a distraction," she said.

"I need a way in," Reese said, casting a glance over at the beverages table. Finch was conversing with a young gentleman with more genuine expressions than he had seen the whole evening: they appeared to know each other quite well. Kara searched his face thoughtfully.

"His Lordship seems to like you quite a lot," she said, inconsequential.

Reese retracted his gaze. "Beg pardon?"

"He took you riding," Kara pointed out.

"We rode together," Reese corrected. He didn't bother to ask how Kara came upon the information. "It's crucial that someone accompanied him given his... condition."

"His Lordship _never_ goes riding," Kara said. "Nor does he go fishing, or hunting, or any of the pastimes the average aristocrat busy himself with." She gave Reese a slow once over. "Yet he seems willing to break open many firsts... for you."

Reese tightened his jaw. "What are you saying?" he murmured, voice smooth with irritation.

Miss Stanton, however, was not one easily perturbed; she brushed away his annoyance easily.

"You need a way in," Kara said, voice light but eyes dark with a flash of warning. "_Find a way in._"

Reese blanked. He fixed his gaze on Kara and she stared back, lifting her brow slowly. Something heavy settled in the pit of Reese's stomach. This was not a contest that he could win.

"That's absurd," Reese said finally.

Kara smiled and gave a slow shrug.

"I don't even think he is responsible," Reese tried.

"Do you have evidence suggesting otherwise?" Kara asked, arching a brow.

Reese tightened his jaw. "No," he said.

"Then you need whatever is in his trunk," Kara said. "Or would you prefer if we were to create a distraction?"

Reese knew that 'creating a distraction' usually involved inappropriate use of firearms, unfortunate accidents, and civilian casualties if needed be. He shook his head. "No," he said. "That would compromise my cover."

The corners of Kara's lip curled into a humourless smile. "Oh, John," she drew out his name in a sigh, "Morality is not something you would find helpful in our line of work."

"Really," Reese said, arching a sarcastic brow. "And I suppose illegality is?"

Kara stretched lazily. "Times are changing, John," she said. "No one at the Office will ask you how you got your information, as long as you get your information. We -"

"- walk in the dark," Reese finished, jaw tightening. "It's a hard line to forget."

Kara lifted a brow and said nothing. She sauntered back to the orchestra, lifted a violin and began to play a soft, exotic tune; Reese recognised it immediately from the time they spent together in Sudan. It was the music that had been playing in the fair when Reese made his first kill, Kara watching from behind.

Reese's face remained blank until Kara finished the song, and their gaze met. Kara's expression was sweet, untroubled, but her eyes reminded him of something else entirely - _We are the dark, John_ - and Reese knew this was not a fight, but a finality. He suppressed the sickening lurch of his stomach, and gave her an imperceptible nod.

Kara smiled.

"For you, John," she mouthed, and she began to play a battle song.

* * *

The dance was a scotch reel, a galloping of footsteps and lively interlacing of couples. Reese found Finch standing on the terrace, half-shielded from public view, while not so removed as to be considered rude, appearing to have temporarily fulfilled his duty. The night was a warm one for September: Finch had his back to the ballroom and his sleeves were rolled up, the only evidence of his ruffled calm.

Reese was halfway to Finch's side when he heard long, striding footsteps come up beside him. "Winchilsea," a voice called, and Reese paused to spot Logan Pierce, the Marquis of Frenborough, marching towards them with a wide grin.

Finch turned. His gaze swept over Reese's face and landed on the Marquis, contemplative, then offered a clipped smile.

"Your Lordship," Finch greeted quietly.

"Ah, don't give me that, old chap," Logan said amiably, patting Finch on the arm. "I came to thank you for the excellent tip you gave me on the Rothchild bonds. They are on the rise faster than people can say the Bank of England."

"Of course," Finch murmured. He appeared wholly oblivious to the prompt for further conversation.

"Don't suppose you'd let me in on the secret?" Pierce asked, curious. "From _where_ do you get your information, my lad?"

Finch's eye twitched. "It was a lucky hunch," he said cooly.

Pierce didn't appear convinced in the least. He smiled at Finch, expectant, and Finch stared back, face a perfect bland mask. At last Pierce laughed.

"Alright," he said. "I won't rob you of your little game." he cocked his head to the side. "Say, where is the Lady of the House tonight?"

Finch frowned. "You know as well as I do that I am unmarried, Frenborough."

"Still?" Pierce looked genuinely surprised, "What about that Grace chit, the jolly redhead?"

Finch's face tightened visibly. He slowly lifted his head to meet Pierce in the eye. "Lady Grace is not a _chit_," he said, dragging each word out. "She is, however, happily married; hence any comment on the matter would be highly inappropriate. I suggest you leave it alone, Frenborough."

Pierce held out his hands. "Okay," he said, vaguely alarmed, "Okay. God, Winchilsea, you are just as strange as they say you are."

"Perhaps you'd be relieved to know that I've already had my share of human blood for the evening," Finch replied, sardonic.

Pierce huffed an incredulous laugh and glanced between Finch and Reese. "Really," he said, sarcasm unable to hide the nervousness in his voice, "then why does your butler look so murderous?"

Reese forcefully pulled a blank over the darkened expression he didn't know he had. Finch half turned to glance at him, face a mask of equally controlled calm, then turned back again.

"You are imagining things, Frenborough." Finch tipped his chin towards the ballroom, where a blur vaguely resembling Leon could be seen dashing back and forth within the crowd. "Perhaps I should let my footman fix you up with something?"

Pierce snorted. "As you like, Winchilsea," he said, shaking his head. He gave Reese a final once-over, half curious and mostly alarmed, and marched back inside.

Finch watched Pierce go with a steady coolness. Then something cracked in his restrained expression: something akin to pain, only darker and much more hollow. Reese fought to suppress the irrational urge to place a hand on his shoulder, knowing it would be interpreted as pity, something neither of them wanted or need.

At last Finch looked up. "Can I help you, Mr. Reese?"

Reese paused for a few seconds before answering.

"You can always win that handsome check back at the card table," he suggested mildly.

Finch's brow flicked in surprise, then his expression loosened. "That's very kind of you," he said with a quiet smile.

It had always been like this, then, between them: a sideline in the conversation, with more things left unsaid; the muteness supplied with a tacit understanding, more profound than words alone. Reese let the silence stretch for a moment before continuing.

"Would you like me to fix you another drink?"

The corners of Finch's mouth lifted a little. "A stout and bold heart comes at the price of a befuddled head," he said.

"And is that not a worthy price to pay?" Reese asked, smiling.

Finch parted his lips in a small huff of amusement. "The human heart -" be began, but the answer was cut short by the stirring of guests in the ballroom. They paused and stared at each other, until Fusco's strained voice travelled through the door -

"His Grace, The Duke of Sutherland!"

Finch's eyes darkened.

"His Grace didn't RSVP," Reese murmured, brows jumping.

"His Grace never RSVPs," Finch replied wryly, retracting his gaze.

Reese reached out to smooth a crease over Finch's cravat, then lowered his eyes. "Should I be concerned?"

Finch contemplated this for a moment, then tipped his chin outwards. "See that gentleman standing by the beverages table?" he said, voice low and deliberate, "His name is Will Ingram. I want you to escort him back to the village, and find him a safe place to stay, for the night."

Reese narrowed his eyes imperceptibly but made no protest. "Of course," he said. "And what about your safety?"

Finch paused on his way back to the brightly lit room. His gaze trailed over the huddle around the highest ranked guest of the night, and his lips curved into a cold, calculating smile.

"Oh, I think I shall be quite safe," Finch said slowly. "I'm going to give the Duke a _good time_."

* * *

Reese returned from his appointed duty to find Finch sitting at the cards table opposite Burton, surrounded by a sizeable crowd. Finch had a minute frown on his face while the Duke appeared amiable as always, smiling and sipping his drink cordially. Reese manoeuvred his way into the crowd to find a piece of paper sitting on the table, signed by both parties, and a cursory glance over the document turned his insides into shards of ice.

"You've lost a quarter of your estate already, Winchilsea," Burton said, flickering his gaze over Reese's face lazily. "Perhaps it's best if you call it a night."

Finch pressed his mouth into a thin line. "Surely you would not rob me of the chance at a good game, Your Grace," he said. "The opportunity to play against one of the greatest minds in the country does not present itself often."

Burton laughed, a good natured, affable sound, though the humour failed to reach his eyes. "I get bored from ordinary wins, Winchilsea," he said. "I have no need for your fortune or estate. Let us up the stakes."

"Oh?" Finch flicked a brow lazily, not bothering to look up.

Burton set down his glass and leaned forward.

"You see," he began, "my old fellow Anthony is seeking retirement."

Finch shot him a piercing glance.

"So I need a replacement for my valet," Burton continued, smiling innocuously.

Finch's brow rose slowly. "I see," he said. "Should I send out an advertisement for you?"

Burton's only widened his smile and reclined back into his seat.

"I hear your new valet is a man of many skills, Winchilsea," Burton said loudly. "I have to admit, I'm a little jealous."

Finch's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Are you," he drawled.

Burton tipped his head sideways and dragged his gaze across the huddle, stopping finally to bore into Finch's face.

"What do you say we play one last hand," he said, "and let fortune decide who should get John?"

The crowd tittered. It was unusual, though not entirely unheard of, to bet on a servant's service, but for a Duke to ask for an Earl's personal valet was something of a precedent. Something dark flitted across Finch's face, he said nothing.

"Fetch dear Harold a drink now, will you, John?" Burton said pleasantly.

Reese kept his eyes lowered and face blank, moving only to serve Finch with a cooled glass of whiskey.

"Thank you, Mr. Reese," Finch replied steadily. He kept his gaze across the table. "And what if fortune should frown upon you, Your Grace?"

Burton shrugged. "Then I return all of my winnings and you can name one thing, anything, that is in my power to give," he said.

Finch studied his opponent with a perfectly composed expression. His eyes trailed over Reese slowly, indecipherable, then settled back onto Burton's face, contemplative. Finch deliberately pushed his current hand onto the table, slow, until all the cards were splayed out, abandoned.

"I accept your terms," Finch announced. "May the best man win."

"Blackjack," Burton followed immediately. "You may deal."

"Very well," Finch nodded, and began shuffling the cards swiftly.

Reese spared a glance towards the orchestra and saw that both Kara and Mark had gone. More spectators had gathered around the table, murmuring in excitement, while Finch dealt the cards, a three and a five.

"Hit," Burton said, lazily.

Finch did. Then, "again," Burton said.

Finch gave him a look, and dealt another card. Burton smiled and fell silent, his fingers drumming on the table, appearing completely at ease with an air of affable confidence. He smiled cordially towards Reese.

"Again?" Finch asked, low.

Burton inclined his head minutely and tapped the table. Finch flipped the card open and Reese's heart skipped a beat: it made Burton's hand a total of twenty.

The crowd stilled. Finch had a Queen of Spades on the table, amounting to ten, the odds were not in his favour. Finch's hand slowly reached for the unrevealed hole card, tipping it up at the edge discreetly - there was a brief flash of image and Reese's heart sank. It was the King of Diamonds.

Finch's hand was going to bust.

Reese's mind was already formulating ten different plans on how to escape the sour aftermath when the crowd leaned in, eager, and the air grew thick; Finch's eyes slid up, his face undecipherable.

"Could you give us some room, please?" he murmured.

The spectators retreated, holding their breaths. Burton smiled and placed his hands under his chin, patient; his eyes grew predatory. Finch took a sip of the whiskey and flipped the card open - Ace of Hearts.

Blackjack.

An eerie silence descended over the room. Reese's heart pounded against his throat, loud and ringing as blood rushed through his ears; he fought to keep his face blank. The onlookers' donned a wide array of expressions: disbelief, curiosity, mirth. No one spoke.

A soft clink broke the silence. Finch idly shook his whiskey glass, now empty.

"Another?" he asked.

The crowd shook out in a rumble. Everyone was saying everything at the same time, a thousand words tumbling over Reese's numb mind as relief and wonderment roared through his body with an exhilarating intensity.

"- sheer dumb luck, Winchilsea -"

"- most nerve-racking ten seconds of this year -"

" - a better candidate I can think of, Your Grace -"

Reese exhaled deeply, unaware that he had been holding his breath. Finch leaned back in his chair, smiling; his gaze trailed over the crowd and settled on Reese's face; the lines around his eyes creased a little more.

Burton regarded them with a careful, composed expression.

"Well played," he said agreeably, tearing the document into two. "Your estate remains intact for today."

Finch offered a humourless curl of his lips. "Good game, Your Grace."

Burton stood up and handed him the cards. For a brief moment something menacing flashed behind his eyes and Reese tensed automatically; then it was gone.

"Yes," Burton said, every word drawn out in a slow and deliberate tone, "Good game."

Finch watched Burton sweep out of the room with his fingers steepled, looking contemplative. He smiled and nodded to everyone who came to congratulate him, politely indifferent, until the crowds began to disperse and all that was left was Reese. Their eyes met and Finch's smile fell away, genuine exhaustion seeping through the crack of his mask.

"My apologies," Finch said, rising out of the chair.

Reese's heart jolted as Finch swayed a little on the spot. He instinctively reached out and their hands brushed: Finch's fingers were ice cold.

"My lord," Reese murmured, searching Finch's face with a frown.

Finch gave him a small smile and gripped onto his hand fleetingly.

"I think I'll have that drink now," Finch said.

* * *

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Finch made no more social rounds after Burton left, but the party had been sufficiently appeased by his early performance and no harsh word was said. By the time the last of the guests dribbled out it was well past one a.m., Fusco had lost his voice, Jocelyn had ripped her dress and Leon had fallen face flat in the lobby, snoring as the effects of his herbal booster wore off. Reese returned to the empty ballroom to find Finch alone, standing on the terrace, overlooking the darkened grounds.

Finch didn't turn when he heard Reese's footsteps. "I'm sorry," he said, without preamble.

Reese came up behind him. "What for?" he murmured.

Finch lifted his head and Reese recognised the unmistakable signs of self-inflicted torment. He wondered absently if he was the reason for Finch's early retirement in the evening, the thought stirring odd in his chest.

"Burton," Finch said, confirming Reese's suspicion. "I should never put you on the table."

Reese shook his head. "There's no need -"

"He played to my weakness," Finch said, pained. "I rose to the bait -"

"You dragged the hook down with you," Reese interjected smoothly. "Burton walked away with nothing."

Finch's brows unknitted briefly, then drew together again. "I'd like to see him try to walk away with _something_," he said, oddly defiant. "Trying to play _fortune_." He pronounced the last word as if it was a particularly offensive subject.

Reese smiled. "It was a very impressive swap you did with your hand," he said. "Nothing short of an expertise."

Finch snorted softly. His expression appeared to loosen over Reese's words. "Leon should be very happy," he said, "to hear that you approve of his... methods at the gambling table."

"Leon gambles?" Reese's brows shot upwards, "I need to have a word with this man."

Finch eyed him. "I feel obliged to point out the fact that Leon's extensive knowledge on the arcane just saved us," he said.

"I'll have a word with him tomorrow then," Reese said agreeably. Finch's mouth twitched. Reese ran the sentence over again in his mind and his face softened, irrationally, over the word _us_.

"Thank you," Reese said quietly, after a while. "For what you did."

Finch smiled contritely. "I placed you in that predicament," he said. "I should be asking for your forgiveness instead."

Reese shook his head, slow. The idea that Finch agonised over a decision about him, while he tortured himself over a decision about Finch was equal parts absurd, disturbing, and oddly endearing. _We walk in the dark_, he thought, _but we do not walk alone, we do not alone._

"I confess I did not want to see you go," Finch said, voice low.

"I wouldn't have wanted to go," Reese said, feigning nonchalance. "There is something to be said about a household where the butler is thinking of retiring at the age of forty-six, instead of sixty-four."

Finch gave a hollow laugh. He turned and searched Reese's face with an odd look in his eyes, soft and indulgent, forbearing.

"Not to Burton," Finch continued quietly. "Not to anyone."

The words hit him square in the chest. Reese inhaled, focused all his strength on kept his face light, then breathed out.

"Are you saying you have feelings for me, my lord?" he murmured, flicking a brow.

Finch didn't answer. He looked over the terrace and onto the grounds, where the lawn stretched out into a soft blanket of darkness, and the shadowed outline of the garden splayed into the night. The wind ruffled at his hair and shirt, soft, rueful; he lowered his head instead.

"As I said," Finch murmured, "I would beg for your forgiveness."

Reese stared. Finch kept his head dipped; the expression on his face was surprisingly lax, soft with something Reese could not put his finger on. Reese waited a span of two breathes, saw Finch exhale slowly, then it hit him: Finch looked relieved, resigned, _accepting_; he had expected Reese to abandon him, and he had already made peace with that outcome. It was the most stupid and most endearing thing Reese had ever seen.

"If you wish to give notice -" Finch began, and Reese huffed an incredulous laugh.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harold," Reese said, feeling flush with abandon. Finch's head snapped up at the mention of his name, his eyes shone impossibly bright in the dark.

"John," he murmured.

Reese smiled and blinked. "Harold," he repeated, making sure.

Finch's eyes softened. "You are not any man's property," he said, quietly.

"No," Reese replied, "but I am standing here by my own choice."

Something faltered in Finch's expression. It swayed, dark, hollow, akin to the pain that Reese had witnessed just hours ago, but also stranger, softer. A flicker of something burned behind Finch's eyes, a fierce trust, an inherent gentleness, a small hope that could find no words. Reese's stomach knotted sickeningly as he realised how this would inevitably turn out, the giddy exhilaration souring in his mouth, Kara's voice in his head - this was his _way in_, a way to achieve what he came for, to find a way around the dark and unravel the secret, _agents for the Crown_ -

"I will ask nothing of you," Finch said suddenly, interrupting Reese's thoughts. He sounded oddly confident and exceedingly uncertain at the same time. "I will ask nothing of you," he repeated, voice wavering a little, "I also do not have a lot to give, but what I have, I can -"

Reese's insides wrenched. The rest of Finch's words drowned in the wind; he took a step forward, and another, until they are almost pressed together. Finch stared at him with an impossibly open expression, excruciatingly aware of the vulnerability yet sanctioning it with ridiculous courage, and Reese thought he would suffocate. His mind split into a thousand fragments, of self-hatred and painful yearning, exhilarating delight and terrible confusion, a million emotions at the same time, tumbling forward, until Finch dragged a thumb over Reese's lip, and Reese's heart bled.

He kissed Finch with an unwarranted harshness, his breath jarring, but Finch didn't flinch; his kiss was returned with equal fervour and a sense of desperateness that he seldom saw reflected in the man's face. Reese let the anguished heat burn a hole in his chest, of gaping loneliness and insolvable fear, his mind crying foul at his actions, his body betraying his desire.

"...ask me," Finch was saying, but Reese found it difficult to understand the words, "I will not lie to you, I will never lie to you -"

Reese huffed a harsh sound against Finch's mouth. Something crumbled inside him and Finch caught him just in time, fingers cool and lips warm, fierce. "Will you - " Reese began, but could not find the right word, _trust? allow? believe? forgive?_ yet Finch still answered, all at once.

"Yes," Finch said. "Always."

* * *

The struggle between guilt and yearning nearly tore Reese in half on the way upstairs. He gripped onto Finch's arm tightly, irrationally, like his life dependably on it; Finch allowed the unnecessary force without protest, leading the way with resolute calm. It made Reese feel vaguely ridiculous and secretly relieved at the same time; he was supposed to be in control, yet he wanted anything but.

"Perhaps a guest room -" Reese began, flinching inside as he thought to the trunk sitting in the master bedroom. Finch paused and gave him a curious glance.

"I assure you, Mr. Reese," Finch said, the usual wryness back in his tone, "Spending one night in the master bedroom does not make you Lady of the House."

Reese laughed a little insanely as he realised that small quip made his insides loosen, more than anything. "Not even breakfast in bed?" he said.

"And who would bring said breakfast to bed, Mr. Reese?" Finch countered, pushing the door open. Reese inhaled, once, twice, until his hands steadied and his mind fortified, then hung their coats, keeping his gaze forcefully averted from the trunk in the corner.

He returned to find Finch settled against the desk, a glass of whiskey in hand, for him.

"To the heart," Finch toasted with a small smile, "May it remain stout and bold."

Reese drank and Finch watched him, the lines around Finch's eyes creasing familiarly, genuinely, fondly. He gazed back, watching the lines unfolding, curving, forming into an expression that was reserved for _him_, intimate; then suddenly it was too much. Reese dropped the glass and pulled Finch into a tight embrace, drawing a shuddery breath, exhaling brokenly around Finch's neck.

"Harold," he croaked.

Finch tipped his head up and kissed him. It was slow, achingly tender, an offer of fierce loyalty and boundless redemption, none of which Reese deserved. He inhaled again and delved into the kiss, deepening it, allowing Finch to push him onto the bed, until they were wrapped together in a tangle of clothes and limbs and sheets, inseparable.

The candle flame flickered violently as fabric ruffled against skin. Half of Finch's face drowned in the shadow as he dipped his mouth to Reese's neck, teasing absently over an X shaped birthmark, the expression on his face engrossed, attentive, fond. Reese smiled; he traced his hand down Finch's back, mapping out the tension, kneading them open. Finch inhaled steeply, then drew back.

"John," he began breathily, eyes fluttering close as Reese pressed another kiss behind his ear, "Would you mind terribly if -" he glanced towards the light uncertainly.

Reese blinked. "Absolutely," he murmured, reaching out to extinguish the flame with a swift hand, seeing no need in divulging his trained ability to see in the dark.

Finch's expression loosened in the soft darkness. Reese shifted his body until their erections pressed together, the heat searing the thin layer of fabric. Reese arched into it wholeheartedly and Finch let escape a breathy sound, grappling onto his side. Reese allowed himself to drown in the scent and sound, the heat and touch, flushing his mind blank; he moved blindly in accordance with Finch's thrusts, eager with abandon as they rubbed together, skin against skin and mouth against mouth, panting. He watched Finch's eyes glaze over as they found a rhythm, expression slightly slack, unrestrained in the shade. At times the unfocused gaze would draw over in Reese's direction and Finch would smile, small and pleased, and Reese would be struck with the irrational sensation of being watched, being _seen_, and it was strangely gratifying, wondrous.

They carried on like this until Reese was close, then Finch leaned down; he tore a hand through Reese's hair and inhaled steeply, exhaling the breath in Reese's name, over and over again. Reese came, unexpectedly, while each breath tugged achingly in his chest; he kept pushing again and again until Finch made a desperate noise and followed, spilling hot and reckless into his hand, thoroughly perfect.

They collapsed against each other and Finch blinked against his cheek, a soft tickle of lashes. Reese reached out and caught Finch's face in his hands, kissing, nuzzling, silently grateful; Finch kissed back, fingers raking comfortingly through his hair. He found himself ridiculously pleased at what just happened and altogether unsurprised at how unapologetic he was, mission purpose and objective be damned.

"Thank you," Reese said, finally, sincere.

The corners of Finch's mouth curved. Even in the dark Reese could tell something had changed: Finch looked quietly pleased, expression loose, discreetly content; _happy_. Reese turned over the strange emotion in his mind and felt that miraculously, he felt it too: the tightness in his chest had uncoiled for the first same in months. Reese realised belatedly that he did want this, _all of this_, ulterior motive or otherwise; he wanted to be where they were, wanted to stay, more than anything. It went against everything rational in his mind, every ounce of logic, every caution engraved by his training, yet it just _was_.

_For a heart stout and bold, a befuddled head. Is it a worthy price to pay?_

Reese opened his eyes as he realised the words had escaped from under his breath. "I -" he began, but Finch only smiled.

"A true heart will always stay bold," Finch said, quiet. "Regardless of the head."

Reese realised, suddenly, that he did not believe Finch was responsible for bleeding the War Fund dry at all: the man may be eccentric, solitary, keenly sharp, but he was also kind and accepting, with an acute sense of integrity that he held irrespective of the opinion of others. Finch sought redemption by offering it to others, Reese included, and it was stupid, insensible, _valiant_, the most extraordinary thing Reese had ever seen.

Reese exhaled and leaned down to press their foreheads together, a bold decision already ripe in his chest. But there was no hurry - the night splayed soft, and the morning could wait.

"Always," he murmured, smiling as soft lashes fluttered against his.

* * *

_I literally went over this chapter TEN times, wanting to get it right... hope it turned out okay! __A special thanks to scully1138 and Maez for continued support =3_


	14. The Impossible Cure, Part III

_So I got this done before tomorrow's 2.21 Zero Day, where no doubt canon will joss everything about Nathan and Harold and possibly more, so I'm posting this right... now. If you are reading after 2.21, please keep that in mind._

_Just a reminder that in this verse, Nathan is alive and everyone is less damaged, trying to make a happy living despite the end of the world, so crack abound. One of these verses is gotta be happy, right? Enjoy._

_More smut ahead (I know...)_

* * *

**The Impossible Cure, Part III**

_The Stronghold, Post Apocalypse, 2107_

Harold stirs as a shadow falls over his closed eyes.

"The Bold Heart Award," a voice says. "I'm impressed, Finch."

Harold inhales - and smells the familiar scent of his own aftershave - then exhales in a sigh. He cracks an eye open and squints at the framed certificate in John's hand.

"More deserving now that I managed to exonerate you from Decima," Harold says, a touch patronisingly.

"That was six weeks ago," John says lightly, as if he wasn't the one who went under the knife on the floor of Harold's bathroom. "This thing is at least three years old. What did they give it to you for, curing the common cold?"

"My outstanding patient care," Harold replies sarcastically.

"Really," John says. He doesn't look the least bit deterred. "Doesn't quite explain why you still work in the pit, after being employed at the hospital for 17 years."

"No," Harold says, closing his eyes again pointedly, "No it doesn't."

He gets a total of five seconds of peace before a quiet itch begins to float around his nose, and Harold has to pull his eyelids open against a formidable force of nature otherwise known as exhaustion. He finds, somewhat unsurprisingly, that John was staring down at him, nose nearly pressed against his, with an infuriating smirk.

"So, uh," John begins, and the words ghost over Harold's lip like a kiss, "how many of them know you own the entire hospital?"

Harold glares into John's eyes and parts his lips a little. "None," he says, letting the single syllable travel with more force than necessary.

John grins smugly and drops his gaze to Harold's mouth, growing contemplative. Harold draws back with a sharp inhale.

"I thought we agreed on bed rest," Harold says, a little annoyed.

John sits down and drapes an arm over the bench. "I thought we agreed that I'm not very good at following orders," he says, still grinning wide and unabashed, "Besides, the bed gets lonely without you."

It isn't the worst thing Harold has heard in the past six weeks, so he doesn't dignify that with a reply. "Hand," he says, palms up.

John flicks a brow. "Interested in seeing my love line?" he teases, but gives Harold his left hand anyway. Harold drops it.

"The other one," Harold says.

John obeys again. Harold pats it.

"Good boy," Harold says.

John blinks, then the corners of his mouth curls upwards. "Didn't know you had it in you, Harold," he says, sounding more pleased than he ought to.

Harold ignores him. "If you must avoid bed rest, don't you at least have something more exciting to do?"

"Than stalking the doctor who saved my life? Not really," John replies. "Interesting pattern on your tie, by the way."

"It's a mixture of blood and cerebral fluid," Harold says, vexing.

John nods. "Brings out your eyes," he says solemnly.

Harold's eye twitches.

"It's uh, kind of bloodshot," John explains.

"I'm well aware of my physical state, Mr. Reese," Harold says, enunciating every word with slow and deliberate care. "I just worked a sixteen hour shift, and I'm going back for Aurora knows how many hour more."

"Demanding," John says. "Should I wait around till you finally fall over?"

"Is that how people repay their saviour nowadays," Harold says, sarcastic.

John scratches his nose absently and offers a vague shrug. "You saved my life twice," he says, in the exact same casual tone he just used on the tie. "In Chinese culture, that would mean you are responsible for the rest of my life. Two lives."

Harold's mouth twitches. "Actually I think the Chinese had it the other way round, Mr. Reese," he says, standing up and starting his walk back to the hospital. "Usually the _saved_ owes the _saviour_ their lives."

"I'm up for that," John says amiably, following easily with long, leisurely strides.

"Are you," Harold says sardonically.

John flicks a brow. "You did save my life," he repeats, for emphasis.

"You make it sound like a pickup line," Harold mutters.

John grins. "I like you," he says.

"It _is_ a pick up line," Harold says, agonised.

John starts to laugh quietly. Harold ignores him despite his own amusement tugging at his lips, and pulls out a can of tea from his bag. He gives the can a gentle shake and watches it steam, instantly heated, before taking an appreciative sip.

"Sencha," John notes._ (Of course he does.) _"Not a lot of horsepower in those."

"Clever observation," Harold says with a hint of irony, wondering absently why he bothers at all.

"Is this how you get through your sixteen hour shifts?" John asks, slowing down as they reach the back gates of the hospital.

"Excessive amounts of caffeine impacts fine motor function," Harold says. "It most certainly isn't how I got through your six hour operation, Mr. Reese."

"It tastes bland," John says, wholly unaffected.

"It does not," Harold retorts automatically, indignant.

John doesn't reply. He plucks the can from Harold's hand with two fingers and takes a liberal swig, before the 'Mr -' even leaves Harold's mouth.

"Okay, it's better than I expected," John says, delivering his verdict with a lick of his bottom lip. He posits the can back in Harold's loose fist with a grin. "You have good tastes, Harold."

"... thank you," Harold says, punctuating each word with dripping sarcasm. "Would you like my food as well?"

John flicks an eyebrow and dips the same two fingers into the paper bag, before pulling out a donut and sinking in a bite.

"Oh, this is very good," John says around a mouthful. "Not so sure about what it does with your waistline though," he finishes, popping the rest back in Harold's hand.

Harold watches him with slightly parted mouth that turns into an annoyed line. John looks at the donut pointedly, lifting his eyebrow again in challenge, and Harold doesn't look away; he piles mistake number 12671 onto the rest and finishes the donut, locking gaze.

"Harold," says a voice behind him, pained. "Did you just finish that man's food?"

"Nathan," Harold greets pleasantly, eyes still locked on John's smug face.

"He's homeless," Nathan says, patting on John's shoulder good-naturedly, speaking as if John hadn't been occupying their guest room in the past six weeks. "He could be carrying a strand of something for all you know."

Harold ignores him. "If you would be so kind to refrain from commenting on John and I," he says, eyes narrowing a little.

"Oh, it's John and I now, is it?" Nathan says, looking from Harold to John with piquing curiosity.

Harold slowly turns and gives Nathan a pointed look. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" he says. "Conference room A, Board room Z?"

"Ouch," Nathan says, "That's below the belt."

Harold raises a sarcastic brow. They proceed to have a five second staring contest, from which Harold emerges, per usual, as the winner.

"Fine," Nathan says, unimpressed. "Just make sure your stray doesn't run loose on hospital grounds and blow anything up, okay?" He gives John one last good pat on the shoulder (which doesn't shake John one bit) and wanders off into the hospital, shaking his head.

John slides his eyes sideways. "Why do you hang out with him?" he asks pleasantly.

Harold gives him a sour look. "Why do I hang out with you?"

John grins. "Because you like me," he says.

Harold makes no reply. He slowly wipes his hands on a piece of napkin and reaches for his pocket. "Eyes wide," he orders.

"Beg pardon?" John says, flicking another brow.

Harold pulls out a torchlight. "Erotomania can be a sign of lasting brain damage," he says, deadpan.

John tips his head sarcastically. "Which wouldn't show up in a neuro exam," he counters, one hundred percent serious.

Harold clicks the torchlight off, a little surprised. "Very impressive," he says thoughtfully.

"Maybe you should stick to the dog jokes from now on," John suggests, smirking.

Harold opens his mouth to retort and is cut short by the sight of Leon running towards them with full speed, armful of charts and a speaker in one hand.

"Decima versus Medical factory," Leon says, skidding to a halt and panting. "Forty casualties give or take, ETA three minutes."

Harold's face tightens visibly. "How many surgeons do we have today?"

"Five," Leon says. "We lost Dr. Nelson last night."

Harold drops the food bag promptly and starts towards the trauma bay in a fierce hobble. "Page every staff available on every floor," he orders, "Anyone who's not involved in a procedure right now is to report to the ER, _including_ Dr. House - "

Harold pauses when he sees John come up beside him, discarded food bag in hand. "Mr. Reese," he begins, "I suggest -"

John flicks his hand and the food bag flies into the furthest bin with a perfect trajectory. "ETA 20 seconds," he says.

Harold stares. "John -"

But John is right; the ER door bursts open with a stream of medical pods, each containing an unconscious, bloodied, or screaming person. Harold forgets about John then: he dives towards the nearest medical pod and pushes it towards the trauma bay, linking up the monitor and pulling open drawers with practised swiftness. He snaps the gloves on and stares down at the nearest pulp of a person, alarmed.

"Explosives," Harold says, raising his voice over the commotion. "Tao! I thought you said medical factory?"

Leon zips over and splays a wide array of surgical tools on the table. "Yeah, Headquarters rigged the whole place to explode if it was compromised," he says.

Harold frowns tightly. "Before people could evacuate?"

"For the greater good," one of the casualties grits out with a hallow laugh. Harold turns to him just in time to see he has started convulsing, clawing his chest, struggling for breath.

"What _is _that," Leon says, horrified.

"Some sort of anaphylaxis," Harold ventures, scowling harder. "IgE bots," he says, palm up.

Leon shakes his head. "We are out of all nanobots," he says, then grimaces. "From the looks of it, permanently."

Harold presses his mouth into a thin line as Leon struggles to hold the man down. "Push one of epi for now," he says, "triage all the patients and start with those unresponsive - is there any recovery pods still functioning - never mind, just do what you can," he finishes, moving onto the next patient with lightening speed.

Harold manages to get through five patients (two unsalvageable, one femoral artery leak and two open skulls) before he is called back again. The patient has stopped convulsing, but he still isn't breathing properly; Harold looks down to find the patient's throat has engorged impossibly with evidence of severe oedema.

"He's not responding to anything," Leon says, desperate. "And before you ask, I tried _everything_ that we have."

Harold closes his mouth again. The monitor interface is beeping incessantly - the patient's O2 stats is dropping. He looks at the patient's swollen neck, then to the scalpel, a familiar sense of quiet horror rising in his chest.

"...tomy," Harold whispers.

"What? Finch, if you are gonna faint, now's really not the best time," Leon says, darting his eyes across Harold's face.

"He needs a tracheotomy," Harold repeats, louder.

"Tray what?" Leon asks, "are you sure -"

"You mean rip his throat open," the chubby doctor tending over the next bay - Fusco, from the eighth floor - pipes in. "Man, that's barbaric."

Harold shoots him a sharp glance. "Do you know how to perform one?"

"No," Fusco replies. "They stopped teaching that _before_ the world ended."

Harold darts his eyes from the declining patient to the next one, whose blood pressure is dropping steadily, torn with rare indecision. "I can't -" he says, "I've only read about it -"

"You could cut into his jugular," Fusco supplies helpfully.

The patient's hand flops limply from his chest. The monitor flashes red; a count down timer automatically begins. "Four minutes until irreversible brain damage," Leon says, anxious. "Finch?"

Harold inhales steeply and reaches for the scalpel. "I need -" he begins, and stops short when a warm hand cups over his. Harold slides his eyes upwards to see John, whom he had completely forgotten about, staring at him with an indecipherable expression.

"Let me," John murmurs, picking up the scalpel for himself.

Harold's mouth doesn't close until John gently pushes him aside and dips the scalpel into an area between the patient's engorged adam's apple and breast bone. "_John_," he begins, aghast, "You can't -"

"Tube," John says, palm outstretched.

Leon gapes. John shoots a vaguely unimpressed look and reaches out to pluck a ballpen from Leon's breast pocket, decapping it with a flourish. Harold jolts.

"Wait," he says urgently, pulling open a drawer and handing him a draining tube, "At least this is sterilised," he says.

"Thank you," John says smoothly before inserting it into the patient's trachea with one, swift motion. Fusco hisses, Leon flinches, and Harold's gaze drop to the monitor: the O2 stat is rising again.

"Life-saving butchery," Fusco says.

"This is probably not anaphylaxis but okay," John says, ignoring the comment. "The tube should buy you some time, but I think it's best to send him to a specialist to be diagnosed." He flips the scalpel and hands it back, grip first. "Infectious Diseases, perhaps?"

Harold's eyes snap up from the sharp blade. "Mr. Reese," he says, urgent and authoritative, "I hereby offer you the position of trauma medic, level three, at the Universal Heritage Hospital, effective immediately."

"Level three?" Fusco says, indignant. "I'm only level two, and I've been here for longer than he was out!"

"There are levels to our medics?" Leon asks, incredulous.

Harold ignores them and shuffles to the next patient in crisis, shooting John a sharp glance. John flicks a brow in response, bemused.

"Okay," he says, stepping back to let Harold through, "When's my interview?"

"Five minutes ago," Harold answers, ripping down a large bag of saline and injecting it with procoagulants. "Congratulations, you passed with flying colours. Now kindly accept my offer and start with bay three."

John's brows remain in an amused arch. "And what makes you think I'll accept?" he asks.

"Because you need a job," Harold says, hanging the saline back up and looking down again. Their eyes meet and John's face goes a little blank, the way it does when Harold lets slip a truth that they both know but never speak about. Harold grabs a pair of gloves off the counter and hands it over, palm outstretched.

"You need a purpose," Harold says, gaze intent.

John accepts the gloves without another word.

* * *

Hiring John, it turns out, is the best decision he's made in years, which is clinically significant, because up until a day ago Harold was seriously considering saving John to be the worst mistake of his life. (Kissing John came a close second.) The stubbornness of a patient would not leave Harold's apartment - or bedroom, whenever night raids occurred in their neighbourhood, insisting on keeping watch - and appeared to be wholly unflustered whether Nathan tried to provoke him or ignore him, like a piece of gum on the proverbial shoe (Nathan's words; Harold thinks he's more like an 100 tesla magnet stuck to the proverbial fridge). Harold had suspected, of course, that John's military training had allowed him some form of medical knowledge (hence the bold attempt at an self-performed surgery in the bathroom), but to find John to be in possession of barbaric, twenty-first century butchery skills (Fusco's words; Harold thinks it's more of an _Expert's Guide to Saving People When the World Ends_) happened to be the happiest mishap Harold has had in a long time.

John works with a kind of military trained efficiency which Harold has only ever seen in one other person (Dr. Watson, before he disappeared in pursuit of his mad genius of a flatmate). He is thoroughly impressed when John single handedly cut response time by a third; an achievement so significant that Harold is willing to overlook the fact that his new recruit drove Fusco to the edge of a breakdown and caused Leon to be impossibly infatuated all paradoxically within the first hour. They worked together until all forty-six of the bomb casualties were triaged and stabilised, then Harold excused himself; his leg could no longer support his lopsided weight.

Harold passes out on the bench at 5:31 and wakes up at 5:45 to a warm blanket draped over his body. He feels oddly rested despite having only slept for 14 minutes, and takes the luxury of having a shower in his private office, then decides to go back to the bay to check on his patients. He arrives to find the ER nearly empty: Leon is gone, so are the rest of the staff, leaving only John, sitting in a corner idly stitching up a girl from what looks like to be sports injuries.

"All good to go," John says as Harold approaches. "Here..."

He ties a bow tie on the girl's stitch line. "Don't bother with the apple tree near the Encampment again," John says. "Those apples are really sour, not worth the fall."

Harold watches the blushing girl depart then retracts his gaze. John smiles at him.

"So," John begins, drumming his fingers on the table, "You pay by the hour, or something?"

Harold scowls. He looks around to make certain the room is empty. "Or something," he says slowly, finding his voice to be unpleasantly groggy. Harold clears his throat. "Where are my patients?"

"Divided up across the floors," John replies. "No longer a trauma surgeon's concern."

Harold widens his eyes in disbelief. "But - " he glances around again, "There were still ten patients left half an hour ago!"

John grimaces. "It's gone past six pm," he says, collecting the tools into the drawer.

"It is _not_," Harold says, horrified. "I slept for twelve hours?"

John shrugs. "That's what happens when you stay awake for more than forty-eight," he says.

Harold opens his mouth, then closes again. His tongue tastes bitter. "Did you _drug_ me?" he says incredulously, drawing out the words slow.

John grins. "You look better," he says inconsequentially.

Harold gapes. "May I remind you it is bad form to drug your employer on your first day," he says, with less conviction than he would like. He vaguely remembers jolting from a fitful dream somewhere in between, and accepting water from John's hands. "What did you give me?"

"It's most likely already out of your system," John replies. "Relax, Finch."

"And here I was thinking of making a trip to Toxicology," Harold retorts sarcastically. He huffs in resignation when he realises he does feel better, much better. "Please refrain from doing that again," he says, with mild distaste.

"Sure," John says, sounding infinitely amused. "Dinner?"

Harold contemplates this, thinks about the day he just had and the day that's likely to come, then concedes. "I don't suppose you mean separately," he mutters.

John grins. "You are buying," he says, swinging on his suit.

* * *

Harold isn't entirely sure how they got here. The world as they knew it had ended, yet there is still a world for them to live on in, which makes boundaries and personal choices a lot more ambiguous than it used to be. It is, for example, not wholly unacceptable to allow a former-military, until-recently-homeless, now-personal-employee of a stray to stay at his apartment; nor is it entirely unexpected when said man pressed him against the wall after their shared dinner.

Harold blinks as John tipped his nose against his. "If it's any indication of my discomfort," he begins slowly, "I'm well past the three hundredth digit of Pi."

John grins. "And when did you start?" he asks, tugging at Harold's tie leisurely.

"Halfway through the entree," Harold replies, dragging the words out.

"Hmm." John nuzzles against his cheek and Harold has to fight to keep his inhalation small and controlled, "That's an hour ago. Losing your touch?"

"Unlikely," Harold bites out. "I'm reciting backwards from a thousand."

John laughs quietly and it tickles Harold's ear; Harold grits down an involuntary shiver.

"May I remind you that it is _also_ bad form to attack your employer in the hallway," Harold says, voice slightly hitched.

John's eyes slides upwards. "You, uh, don't like the mood lighting?" he says, smirking towards the fluttering headlight in the corridor.

Harold doesn't dignify that with a reply. He bends his hands backwards and fumbles, until the door unlocks open with a click and John flicks a brow, looking impressed.

"It isn't the first time I've been pressed against a wall," Harold says pointedly, flipping on the light.

"I'm tempted to ask whether the previous times are as pleasant," John says, slipping into the room inconspicuously.

"They are not," Harold says dismissively. "Tea?"

John follows him into the kitchen and dips his elbow on the counter, grinning much too widely for Harold's liking. "I'm good," he says, watching Harold move about with his tea ritual intently.

"And yet I have a feeling you are waiting for something," Harold says, after a few minutes. He stops his mug on the way to his lip and narrows his eyes; John looks positively - suspiciously - gleeful.

"You bought me dinner," John says, raising a brow pointedly.

Harold slowly resumes the process of making contact with his mug. "I will deduct the amount from your first pay check," he says, equally pointedly.

John grins lazily and cups a hand over his, bringing down the mug slowly with deliberation. Harold allows the interference with as much dignity as possible, then raises a brow when John leans close, closer, ghosting over his lip with a half lidded smile, suggestive and pleased.

"Must we do this every time?" Harold asks, mouth twitching a little.

"Well, Harold," John says, one hundred percent smug and two hundred percent insufferable, "I was hoping you'd ask."

They stare at each other for a few seconds and John's smile widens.

"Be-d," Harold says, ignoring the glint in John's eye and letting the final 'd' roll off the tip of his tongue, pointedly.

John grins and saunters off to the bedroom. Harold notes absently that there appears to be no lasting damage in motor function judging by John's easy strides, and locks the door behind them. He pauses, then activates the 'No-Nathan' protocol just to be safe, exhaling as he turns.

"Strip," Harold orders.

John steps out of his clothes lazily, shimmering his gaze over Harold's face. Harold scowls a little.

"Turn," he continues.

John does; and Harold tips a hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him down towards the bed. John makes a suggestive noise. Harold ignores him.

Harold spends the next ten minutes carefully evaluating John's status of health, prodding and listening as John stretched out on the bed with a comfortable grin.

"It seems you are fully healed after all," Harold finishes, at last. He trails his eyes down the scars on John's back - already starting to fade - and marvels at the casual strength John displays, adamant in face of the impossible. "Remarkable rate of recovery," he notes.

John blinks lazily back at him.

"Does it hurt when I do this?" Harold asks, rubbing over a light knot over the back muscle with mild concern. John replies with a noncommittal noise that turns into a somewhat indecent one when Harold drops his hands lower.

"There is nothing -" Harold begins, then huffs. "This is not even one of your erogenous zones, Mr. Reese."

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. John doesn't reply, but his whole body vibrates as he breathes his laugh into the pillow. Harold's wine-loosened mind suddenly decides to take it as an insult and he acts before reason catches up - mistake number 12771.

He draws a finger over the nape of John's neck.

"Here," Harold murmurs.

John stills; his shoulder blades tighten a little. Harold drags two fingers down his spine and gently wipes the tension away, landing just above his tailbone.

"And here," Harold says, curling his fingers into a light caress.

John inhales and rolls over gracefully. His eyes are impossibly bright in the sharp overhead light, glimmering with soft fondness, and Harold's heart wrinkles, just a little bit.

"Shall I continue?" he asks, the intended irony mellowed by the undeniable gentleness in his voice.

"Oh, please do," John says, finding a comfortable position among the sheets, wholly unashamed and beautifully feline.

Harold studies him for a moment, then gently places two fingers against John's jugular. "Ninety-six," he says, after a moment.

John's peers at him lazily. Harold wipes his fingers down the side of John's neck, feather light.

"_Platysama_," Harold begins.

John flicks a brow, amused. Harold lowers his eyes and tips a finger against the hollow of John's chest bone. "_Manubrium sterni_." He descends his caress down the midline of John's stomach, then, "_Linea alba_."

"Hmm," John says, shifting a little.

"Your _transversus abdominis_ muscle," Harold continues, dipping his fingertips against John's waist, "here, and here." He watches the appointed muscle tighten with a small curve of his lips, then lowers his hand to hover over John's thigh. "_Pectineus_, _abductor brevis_, _abductor longus_, and _tensor fasciae latae,_" he murmurs. "Which leads us to..."

Harold strokes over John's inner thigh softly and smiles. "...the cremasteric reflex," he finishes, retracting his hands.

For the first time in the entirety of their encounter, John appears to be at a loss for words. He peered up from half lidded eyes, slightly glazed, lips parted open to form a small wondrous shape, completely tamed, more mellow than Harold had ever seen. Harold finds himself running a hand down John's hair and neck out of irrational impulse; he smiles as John leans into his hand instinctively. He places his finger against John's jugular again.

"One hundred and twenty-six," Harold says softly.

John doesn't reply. For a moment he looks simply dazed, then he smiles, an unguarded and pleased curve of the lips. Harold's heart twinges again, irredeemably, unreasonably, just a little more; he tips himself over the verge of committing inexcusable mistake number 12772 and leans down.

The kiss is really meant to be chaste and placating, he thinks, but John has evidently sensed an opening and seized it; Harold concedes after three beats of half-hearted indecision and returns the admirable enthusiasm with liberal indulgence. He is vaguely aware of some strategic manoeuvre John seems to be pulling amongst the tumble of sheets and limbs, until their positions are reversed and John is pinning on top of him, dragging a languid lick down the shell of his ear, slow and pleased.

"John," he breathes, as John nips against his ear.

"No major blood vessels," John whispers.

" - pardon?" Harold frowns, and John sits up; he tips a finger against Harold's jugular.

"Artery, avoid when can," John says. His hands trail down to Harold's chest and makes a broad swipe, "Thoracic region, do not cut unless absolutely necessary."

Harold hears his jaw snap shut with a click. "_That's_ the extent of your medical education?"

John flicks a brow bemusedly. "You never asked in my interview," he says, maddeningly infuriating.

The cutting remark ready at the tip of his tongue resolves itself when John presses a palm against the strain of his trousers. "I - " he begins, then falters as John dips lower and frees his erection.

"John," he breathes, and forgets his part of the conversation as John takes him in. His mind breaks off at the pleased noise that escapes from the back of John's throat, a multitude of fragments each operating on its own, cataloguing the scent, absorbing the heat, remembering the touch. Harold keeps a hand through John's hair as his body is flushed with naked compulsion, wondering absently when was the last time he allowed someone this level of access, the impossible intimacy.

The answer escapes his calculation when John slides back up again. John arches forward and their erections slide against each together, hot and slick and disconcertingly arousing, and Harold is suddenly hit with the odd discovery that his body is still capable of feeling _good_, a sensation that is as foreign as it is powerful.

He keeps kissing John, then, stroking open the lazy smile with his thumb and trailing over the fading scars with gentle care, stopping only to search John's face with permission, and resumes when John answers by producing what they needed. John relaxes around his finger and Harold's breath tightens, inexplicably, the air breaking for escape in his lung. He finds himself looking into John's smiling eyes with what must be an alarming alacrity, and the words cut across the haze, "John -" he begins, and inhales as John bends down gracefully to kisses him, slow.

"John," he tries again, against the drowsy drag of lip against lip, strangling the desperation with what's left of his self-control, "You need to realise - you need - I will -"

John pulls back a little and meets his gaze, oddly soft. "Why else do you think I'm here?" he asks, smiling.

Harold stares at him for a long moment, his mind branching out in more nodes than he could keep up with, then closes his eyes, strained. He grapples onto John's face, pulling him close, closer, until their mouths meet and John's lips curve at the tip of his tongue. John adjusts to the new cadence in their kiss easily, agile, eager, taking the edge off the aching want; he rolls over and blinks as Harold enters him, hazy, pleased, _content_.

Harold looks down at John's languid smile and thinks of the world ending and starting again. He sees life in every breath that expands from John's ribcage and vitality in every lazy flick of John's eyebrow, resilience in every nonchalant remark and strength in every casual act of support, something decidedly different from the destruction and chaos he is forced to witness on a daily basis. John's unwavering presence in this broken world is both irrational and consistent, disconcerting and comforting, story of their strange amatory progression.

Harold tips forward, pushes their bodies impossibly closer, and John inhales steeply, ruffled. "Harold," John murmurs, barely above a breath, and Harold catches a glimpse of something exposed and liable behind the lowered lashes, the momentary truth. He wipes at the shadow underneath John's eyes, gentle. "I have you," he replies, soft, instinctive, without preamble.

Something unfolds in John's expression then, trust, open, _need_, an aching longing that unravels into a simpler want. His eyes flutter against every thrust, a smile on his face that grows fuzzy around the edges, elated, _fulfilled_. Harold tips his finger against the outline of that smile and John leans into it, shiftless and supine, while his body formed a graceful arch; and Harold's mind is overtaken by a flush of bodily sensations almost forgotten, overwhelming, _good_. He is almost surprised when they come within minutes of each other, the sheer palpable force of John's climax radiating to every cell and nerve ending, breaking him apart at the seams.

They lay side by side for a while, in an erratic rise and fall of chests, Harold feeling too sated to untangle himself from John's arm. There is an absent litany of prediction sequences at the back of his mind, running over every possible consequence and aftermath, and he mulls over it half-heartedly, sense against sensibility. After a moment he realises he keeps arriving at the same conclusion, the opening line to _A Tale of Two Cities_, which he supposes isn't entirely outside the realm of reason, though it really is.

"How many," John asks suddenly, pulling him back to attention.

"Beg pardon?" Harold murmurs.

"Pi," John says, lifting a teasing brow. "How many digits are we on now?"

Harold inhales and exhales slowly. "_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times_," he recites.

John looks at him, then settles back onto the pillow. "As long as you haven't been counting Dickens backwards," he says, amiably.

Harold smiles. "This is probably going to go wrong," he says softly.

"Probably," John agrees, without missing a beat.

"You are not going to stop," Harold continues, already knowing the answer.

"No," John replies, completely unabashed.

Harold contemplates this for a moment, then closes his eyes. "There's no reason why the world wouldn't end again, tomorrow," he murmurs.

"No reason at all," he hears John's voice, soft and pleased, before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Harold wakes up the next day to find he has slept a record-breaking nineteen hours in the past twenty four. There is a strange sensation of relief in his limbs, loose and unprompted, and Harold mulls over it absently; he realises, upon seeing his stolen aftershave returned on the bathroom counter, that he feels _happy_.

The oddity of a sensation is still stuck to his mind when Harold enters the kitchen and finds John sitting at the counter sipping a cup of coffee.

"Good morning," he greets.

John lifts a brow and slides his eyes sideways. Harold follows his gaze to find Nathan lodged on the sofa with a pained expression.

"And to you," Harold adds.

Nathan opened his mouth. "I spent the whole of yesterday trying to convince that diagnostician of a doctor, Gregory House, that working in the ER is not the same as clinic hours," he fires in a rapid succession as Harold moves towards the boiling kettle. "Does that make me an incompetent leader?"

Harold eyes him warily. "Did you succeed?"

"Does. That. Make. Me. An. Incompetent. Leader."

"No," Harold says, scowling.

"Then why wasn't I informed of your hiring decision?" Nathan asks, pointedly.

Harold gives him an odd look. "I didn't think I needed your approval," he says, tearing open a teabag and settling it in the mug.

"I'm the owner of this hospital," Nathan protests, indignant.

Harold peers at him. Nathan promptly throws his hands in the air.

"Okay, you know what, maybe I should just put a sign on the door," Nathan says. "_All strays welcome. Hot food and jobs provided._"

"John has a rudimentary grasp on field medicine that has proven crucial where modern day medical supplies run low," Harold says dismissively. "And our supplies are always low." He waves a hand and the morning headline flashes on the table: _Decima leak in medical factory contained_.

"He ripped one guy's throat open and plunged a 16 gauge needle into another's chest," Nathan says, scandalised.

"Really?" Harold says, piquing up in interest, "To reverse a closed pneumothorax?"

Nathan stares at him in disbelief. "He's a stray," he repeats, for emphasis.

"He's my patient," Harold replies, lowering his head again.

Nathan points at the keypad on his room. "You slept with him!"

Harold considers this for a moment. "Actually, he was already my employee when that happened," he says, stirring his tea absently.

"That violates about a dozen of UHH work ethics," Nathan follows immediately.

"You need to update the UHH work ethics," Harold points out. "You can't ban everything from office romance to hot drinks in the corridor, just because it happened to you once, and ended badly."

"That's - " Nathan begins, then loses steam as Harold gives him a look. "- besides the point," he finishes, sour.

"I agree," Harold says pleasantly. "How are John's patients doing?"

"Still alive," Nathan huffs.

Harold waves a hand that says _I rest my case_. The gesture causes the morning news to be replaced by an ad on _The Lost Art of Hands-On Medicine: How To Save People In The Twenty First Century _and Harold delves into it, intrigued, leavingNathan evidently torn between wanting to continue the conversation, and commenting on Harold's choice of morning entertainment.

"Your patient keeps stealing my coffee," Nathan says at last, pained.

"He'll replace it," Harold says absently, holding down the 'buy' button.

"No he won't," Nathan says.

"Yes he will," Harold says, pressing his palm on the table top for wire transfer authentication.

"Will not."

"Really," Harold says, sarcastic.

"Uh," John says. "Should I put an end to this?"

"Have a bagel," Nathan says, pushing a plate towards John and keeping his eyes fixed on Harold. "He hasn't replaced my vodka," he says, picking up right where they left off.

"I told him not to," Harold says dismissively.

"He did," John confirms helpfully, reaching for the bagel.

Nathan promptly drags the plate back and requisitions the bagel for himself, chewing as obnoxiously as he can. Harold snorts.

"Egg benedict?" he asks, flickering his gaze sidewards.

"Pancakes," John decides.

"I look forward to it," Harold says.

Nathan groans. "I knew this day would come," he says, discarding the bagel, agonised. "You'd find _your one_ and I'd never hear the end of it."

Harold ignores him. "How's Olivia?" he asks, allowing John to pour more tea into the mug.

Nathan flinches. "That's low," he says. "that's - " he redirects his gaze onto John, who is in the middle of trying to suppress a smug grin with no avail. "I'm your employer too, you know," Nathan says, indignant.

"Sure, boss," John replies, infinitely amused.

Nathan's eye twitches. "You've been here for six weeks," he says sourly, "Two of which you spent passed out on the bed. I've lived with this gentleman since MIT still stood for Massachusetts Institute of Technology -"

"- is this where you tell me if I break his heart you will break my leg?" John asks, arching his brow.

"I don't think I want to be a part of this conversation," Harold mumbles.

"I can break things you never even knew you had," Nathan says, appearing vaguely arrogant for absolutely no reason. Harold wonders absently when he'd given Nathan the impression that he needed to be protected, because it is simply ludicrous.

John merely flicks a brow lazily.

"You don't know anything about him," Nathan continues, provoking.

"I haven't figured out his favourite colour yet, no," John replies amiably.

Nathan's face goes blank for a moment and Harold cringes. "Gentlemen," he protests, settling the mug down with a clink.

They ignore him.

"I brought you food when you were knocked out with that fever," Nathan says, tipping his chin.

"I'll think of a way to repay you when I've repaid my debts to Dr. Finch," John says smoothly, grinning.

"Please stop," Harold mumbles.

Nathan positively cracks. He jabs a finger at Harold's side and hisses, "You don't even know that his real name is Harold Wren!"

"...so you think," Harold mutters darkly, rubbing at his ribs.

John's brows arch in ill-concealed mirth. Nathan darts his eyes between John and Harold, appearing torn between his enemies, then lets out a frustrated groan.

"It's like watching Nazi Germany teaming with Soviet Russia," Nathan says, throwing his hands up and turning on the spot.

Harold and John exchange a look.

"That's, uh -" John begins, and Harold takes over, "- an inaccurate historical reference, Germany and USSR's alliance was backed by -"

"I think we are more like America and England," John interjects, thoughtfully.

Harold scowls. "If you are referring to America's impressive manufacturing output - "

"Who said I'm America?"

Harold parts his mouth. "Well if -"

"Oh this is just perfect," Nathan interrupts loudly, vexing with sarcasm. "I'll just go and be Poland, shall I? Let you run all over me while I bleed in tears."

Harold stares at him. "America never -" then stops and reminds himself of Nathan's dubious blood pressure levels. He glances at the clock. "Don't you have morning rounds to complete, more doctors to dissuade from quitting?"

"I didn't make back till 5am, I'm making the morning off," Nathan says, eyes still fixed in John's direction. "Besides, I'm not leaving you alone with _him_. He might bite."

John's nose twitches. Harold huffs a long suffering sigh and decides that being Switzerland isn't going to work.

"While I appreciate your concern," he begins slowly, "there remains a question of logistical applicability - "

"What," Nathan snaps.

"- do you really think you can take on John?" Harold finishes with a vaguely apologetic grimace.

Nathan's eye twitches. John coughs. Harold watches in alarm as Nathan straightens, and takes a step towards the kitchen counter.

"How about I try?" Nathan says, eyes narrow.

John flexes his fingers lazily.

"_No_," Harold says, horrified.

"Three," Nathan spits.

"Uh, six," John says.

"_Five._"

"Deal," John replies, extending his hand.

Harold stares with vague apprehension until they settle down on the couch and Nathan drags a modified electronic antique from the cabinet.

"_No_," Harold repeats, agonised.

"Vintage gaming," Nathan announces. "It requires a certain skill set to win at these, and not just brute force."

John makes a noncommittal noise as _Call of Duty 5_ boots up on the screen and accepts a beer from Nathan with a graceful nod. They proceed to have an intense gaming session during which Nathan gets kneecapped every five steps and John receives a total of 132 head shots. Harold can't decide whether he should be impressed or horrified; he settles for reading a book instead. He gets through five chapters before they decide to random pick games from Nathan's vintage collection for a rematch, after which John wipes the floor at _Street Fighter_ and Nathan wins unequivocally at _Risk_. Then Harold thinks he might have been Germany after all, only before the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Harold's self-restraint at passing judgement on game titles and their performances snaps, finally, when they start bludgeoning each other in _Plants Versus Zombies_. He taps John's shoulder.

"Which one are you?"

"The Zombie," John replies easily, "Mr. Ingram is too pretty for anything but the sunflowers."

Nathan's jaw twitches as he sets off a Jalapeno. John grins. Harold thinks he might go insane.

"Move over," he says, exasperated.

Nathan snaps his head up in alarm. "_No_," he says, "Harold, that's not -"

Harold brings up a virtual keyboard with a flick and dances his fingers over it, finishing as Nathan finishes,

"- fair," Nathan says, dejected.

John huffs an incredulous laugh as a horde of Dr. Zombosses overran Nathan's house on the screen. "Uh," he says, "that's -"

"- cheating," Nathan says, sulkily. He darts his eyes over Harold's mildly unimpressed face and John's amused eyebrow, then raises his hand.

"See, that's what I mean," he says.

"What," Harold and John says in unison.

Nathan tosses another can of beer to John and continues, pointedly, "you didn't even know Harold's worse than Decima itself."

Harold pulls his brows together. "You really ought to work on your literary comparisons," he says, aware that John is watching him intently.

"What did you two study in MIT?" John asks.

"Aha, he's catching on," Nathan says. "Computer science. The safest, most boring profession anyone can imagine - "

"- until the world ended," Harold interjects. "Must we do this?"

"We were going to set up a company together," Nathan says, ignoring him. "Before fiddling with computers became a liability, of course. IFT - Ingram Finch Technologies."

"That is _not_ what IFT stands for," Harold says, scandalised.

Nathan pays him no attention. "I was the pretty face, and Harold was the brain," he says to John. "I suppose if we'd met you then, I could've let you be the head of security or something," he adds, thoughtful.

"Can't see why that wouldn't work," Harold mutters, sarcastic.

"You know, you are a good doctor, Harold," Nathan says abruptly, lowering his gaze to Harold's hands. "But you have to admit, we were better at fixing machines."

Harold says nothing. He looks at the light callouses on his fingertips, already fading, then at the pressure marks left behind by holding a scalpel too tightly. "People are not machines," he says.

John, who has been watching the exchange oddly silent, suddenly inhales.

"What if they are?" he asks.

Nathan snaps his head up and Harold frowns. "How do you mean?"

John ponders over this for a minute then starts with a most impossible opening. "The first time I came to your hospital, I barely made it from Ordos," he says.

"Ordos?" Harold echoes, blank.

"The military execution site?" Nathan says, eyebrows flying through the roof.

John shrugs. "Since we are sharing," he offers with a hint of irony. "Shall I, uh, go on?"

"Do," Nathan and Harold pipes in unison.

"I have a bullseye on my back," John says, diving straight to the point, "Not only because I'm supposed to be dead, along with the rest of the team who investigated Decima. The point is," he continues, waving aside Nathan's sharp inhale, "they came after me again after Ordos, and they tried to infect me with Decima itself."

Harold frowns. "They," he says slowly, "implying that there are people with control over the virus?"

John flicks a brow. "More than you'd think," he says. "The programme, Aurora, is originally designed to uplink human consciousness to the cloud, allowing out-of-body travelling, so to speak. Somewhere along the way, it went wrong, and all those connected to the mainframe became controlled by the mainframe, now it's known as Decima." He pauses. "I'm hazy on the specifics, but the most direct way to infect someone seems to be to inject the receptor into the spine. They missed mine, so -"

"- so I was able to extract the virus before you turned," Harold finishes, a thousand thoughts running over in his head. "Did you say a receptor?"

John reached over and trailed a finger from Harold's spine to his temple. "All the way up here," he says.

Harold stills as a terrible realisation dawns on him. He looks over at Nathan and finds his roommate open mouthed, eyes burning with the exact same realisation.

"So I think it's possible to reverse Decima if you could interfere with the data flow," John says. "I don't suppose this is something you can try?"

"Try?" Nathan repeats, then looks at Harold. Their eyes meet, and Harold is hit with the odd feeling that this is the single most important decision he will have in his life. He glances over from Nathan to John, realising that this isn't a decision at all, then nods.

Nathan grins.

"We can wipe out Decima altogether," he says, looking like they'd just proclaimed a war.

* * *

_So in this AU people make different choices, but will they have different outcomes? Hmmm..._


End file.
